
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap..i^.’? Copyright No. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 





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MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL 


1 



Memoirs of a Little Girl 


BY 

WINIFRED pHNES 

(MRS. EDWARD R. JOHNES) 
Author of**Miss Gwynne, Bachelor” 




MDCCCXCVII 


CONTINENTAL PUBLISHING CO. 

NEW YORK & LONDON 



Copyright 1896 
by 

Continental Publishing Co. 


MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


CHAPTER I. 

It is from a day in the midst of the snows of 
a rigorous Western winter that my first con- 
scious and permanent memory dates. The ex- 
terior of my home does not seem at that epoch 
to have impressed itself upon me, though I rec- 
ollect it later, a big gray house surrounded by 
tall locust trees and lilac and snowball bushes, 
looking cheerful enough under the warm July 
sunshine. 

The first day from which everything else in my 
world seems to date, I remember as being spent 
in a large room warmed and almost lighted by 
the fire that glowed in an immense wood stove. 
I say lighted, for the fast-falling snow made a 
ghostly half twilight all day long, through which 
shone feebly a pale yellow orb that neither 
healed nor illuminated. The drifting snow 
nearly covered the lower part of the windows 
and encrusted itself in patches on the higher 

5 


6 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


panes. From time to time I left my play near* 
the roaring fire, to press my small nose against 
the glass and to wonder if by night the white 
tide would have risen until it mounted to the very 
roof. I believe that I secretly hoped that it 
would ; children are eager for sensations new 
and startling. And then — to the vivid memory 
of that bright and homely room and the smiling 
face of my mother as she watched my play, 
succeeds an absolute blank. Whether the storm 
cleared or whether it increased, as I hoped it 
would do, until we were engulfed, I could not 
now relate from my own recollection. And next, 
by some strange, miraculous transformation, it 
was summer and I was romping on the grass with 
a new baby sister — new only in my memory — 
for she must have then been six months old. And 
I pelted her with snowballs from the bush near 
by, as I must have seen other children pelt their 
playfellows with real balls of snow in the winter 
that had past, until the little creature cried 
with fright and the nursemaid told me that I was 
too big and rough to play with my little sister. 

After that, other memories succeed each other 
with kaleidoscopic swiftness, some vdvid, some 
vague. There were childish escapades, as when 
I ran away to join a circus, or to be a feminine 
Robinson Crusoe on a desert island. Then there 
was my famous imitation of one of Baron Trenck’s 
many escapes, which ended so disastrously for 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL, 7 

me. F or some childish peccadillo I had been sent 
to my room, there to remain until I should be in 
a penitent frame of mind. This was entirely 
moral suasion, the only sort my mother practiced. 
I was not forcibly haled up the stairs and locked 
in the room ; I was simply told to go there and 
close the door. I could, therefore, have walked 
out as easily as I had walked in, but that would 
not have suited my high and heroic purpose half 
so well as to make a bold and daring escape by way 
of the window. So I hastily tore my little bed open 
and hastily — alas ! loo hastily, knotted the two 
sheets together and, after fastening the rope thus 
made to one of the legs of the bed, I swung my- 
self gallantly and fearlessly out of the window. 
There followed for one second a glorious soaring 
sensation that made me catch my breath — then 
nothing more until I recovered my senses and 
found myself supported on my mother’s knees, 
with grave and anxious faces all about me and a 
dreadful pain shooting through my right arm. 
My knots had not been very well secured and the 
improvised rope had parted in the middle just as 
it crossed the window ledge. 

Under such circumstances, Baron Trenck 
would doubtless have picked himself up and gone 
on his way rejoicing that he had only broken his 
arm and not his neck. I, however, was forced 
to admit to myself that a small girl of six, if no 
less fearless than a war-scarred veteran, is fear- 


8 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


less because she does not realize the probable 
consequences of her foolhardy deeds rather than 
because she is careless of them. 

My broken arm gave me a certain degree of 
satisfaction when I made my first appearance 
among my playfellows with it done up in a sling, 
for I could pose as a heroine who had suffered for 
her daring and who proudly bore her honorable 
scars ; but the novelty soon wore off and, as the 
arm did not mend very fast, I found it a serious 
drawback to my active amusements. 

Then there was a never-to-be-forgotten trip to 
a lumber camp, taken one spring with my father, 
the owner of a large sawmill on the Fox River. 
The roads were very bad, as the frost had only 
recently relaxed the hold in which it locks so 
fast the earth in that cold region. It was neces- 
sary, therefore, to make the trip on horseback, 

I riding astride in front of my father. The wild 
scene made an ineffaceable impression on my 
mind — the large clearing surrounded by a lofty 
and almost impenetrable forest, the rude log huts 
and the red-shirted lumbermen, a rough and 
boisterous crew, ready with knife or pistol on 
small provocation. 

They were very gentle with me, however, and 
their harsh voices took on ingratiating inflections 
as they talked to the “ little lady.” One of them 
was rather a skillful taxidermist, and he insisted 
on presenting me with a gopher which he had 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 9 

stuffed. It was one of my most cherished treas- 
ures, until a small puppy, a newer acquisition, 
chewed it up beyond all hope of repair. Through 
my sobs I told my mother that I supposed I’d 
have to forgive the dog for he didn’t know any 
better, but that I never wished to see him again. 
I relented the next day, however, not so much 
from a Christian spirit of forgiveness as because 
I didn’t care to lose at once my two dearest treas- 
ures. So Prince was gradually restored to a 
favor which lasted until his untimely taking off 
through distemper. This, my first great sorrow 
was, like the Irishman’s, somewhat assuaged by 
giving my departed friend a “ most iligant fune- 
ral.” Indeed, the obsequies were so satisfactory 
to all the participants, that we thought seriously 
of exhuming the corpse and repeating the cere- 
monies on the following day. My mother over- 
heard some conversation bearing on the subject, 
however, and so decisively forbade the carrying 
out of our plan that we were forced to regard 
our canine friend as being as dead as Csesar, and 
all our subsequent consolation was derived from 
composing an elabora.te epitaph to adorn the 
monument which, by dint of carefully saving our 
pennies, we intended to purchase. 

Needless to say that the composition never was 
chiseled into stone, for, by the next week, other 
things began to interest us. We could not forever 
mourn, and candy and marbles were expensive. 


CHAPTER li. 


The summer which followed my visit to the 
logging camp, left its impress on my mind as be- 
ing a very eventful one. At least, it was full of 
novel experiences and afforded glimpses of a 
phase of life that was to me wholly new. In the 
first place, our family, which had always occu- 
pied our own house, moved to a hotel, and it was 
irici c iiio-L I made my first acquaintance with the 
theatre, both before and behind the scenes. 

My brother, who was many years older than I, 
had elected, a year previous to this time, to do as 
so many ambitious boys have done — go out into 
the world and seek his fortune. He had taken 
a position in a Chicago business house. His 
visits home were rare, and brief in their duration, 
and so, only my little sister Kitty and I were left 
with our parents in the big house behind the 
snowball bushes and lilac trees. When an en- 
terprising Yankee, full of modern ideas and fresh 
from the center of Eastern civilization, built a 
smart and showy new hotel, throwing completely 
into the shade the old California House, my 
father took a suite of rooms for us there, and the 
home of my earliest recollections was abandoned. 


The memoirs of a little girl. 1 1 


The top floor of the National Hotel was con- 
structed into a large hall, with a stage at one 
end. Mot long after its completion, Lepere was 
visited by a travelling theatrical company. It 
was called the J. C. Blodgett Co., I think — the 
name of its star actor. The gifted beings who 
played Shakespeare by night were entirely affa- 
ble and condescending by defy. Lady Macbeth 
always asked kindly, in her deep tragedy tones, 
“How do you do, little girl ?” when she met me 
in the corridor, and Hamlet was a very approach- 
able person. The one whom I most admired, 
however, was a plump young woman with short 
blonde curls, who was always cast for the part 
of a page, and who occasionally did a song and 
dance before the curtain to allay the impatience 
of the w'aiting audience. My childish heart W’as 
won by her merry smile and gay, good-humored 
ways. I began secretly to aspire to be an actress, 
just like Miss Ethel St. John. 

My delight knew no bounds when I was called 
upon to help the company out of difficulty. Mr. 
Blodgett (by request), so the programme stated, 
was to play Rip Van Winkle. His little son 
took the part of Rip’s boy, and there was no 
other child in the company to play “ Mina ” in 
the first act. My size and age — I was eight 
years old — fitted me to walk through the one 
scene, and my mother’s objections gave way be- 


12 ‘THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIrL 


fore Mr. Blodgett’s supplications and my own 
eagerness. 

I had only one rehearsal to prepare me for my 
first appearance in public, as they did not think 
it necessary that I should learn the words of the 
part. I was to be an animated dummy — nothing 
more — but secretly I cherished high hopes of so 
distinguishing myself that the company would 
insist on my being enrolled as a regular member. 
I was quite prepared to run away, did my par- 
ents refuse their permission. Alas ! I had never 
heard of stage fright, but by bitter experience I 
learned its meaning and my ambitious aspirations 
came to naught. 

Probably Mr. Blodgett’s “ Rip ” was far below 
Jefferson’s standard, but it satisfied and moved 
his audience that night. When it came time for 
me to appear, the strangest feelings began to 
assail me ; my tongue grew dry and my knees 
became weak and unsteady. I went on the 
stage helping the little boy to carry a basket ; — 
of clothes — 1 think. When we set it down, I 
stood stock-still, struggling with a wild desire to 
run away and hide myself from all those staring 
eyes that seemed so mercilessly fixed on me. 
My little stage-brother went through his lines 
with ease and confidence which seemed little 
short of miraculous to me. 

“Come here, Mina,” he said, seating himself by 
the table. 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 13 


I did not move. I could not, I was perfectly 
paralyzed with fear. The boy scowled at me 
and beckoned. “ Come here, Mina, I want to 
tell you something,” he repeated. “Come along 
you little goose, or I’ll throw something at you,” 
he whispered shrilly. 

This was too much. I recovered my power of 
locomotion and fled, weeping, overturning the 
basket of clothes in my effort to escape, by the 
shortest cut, into the obscurity of a private life. 
How Mr. Blodgett finished the act, I don’t know, 
for I was too mortified to creep out that evening 
from the hiding-place I had sought. It is prob- 
able that he was a little careful the next time he 
selected an amateur to help him. 

My small companions teased me unmercifully, 
as children will, and my discomfiture was so 
great that for a few days I preferred to play 
alone rather than run the risk of hearing anything 
about Rip Van Winkle. It was a tax on my 
ingenuity to amuse myself without any playmates, 
particularly as my mother had forbidden me to 
go near the river whose brink was so invitingly 
near the hotel, being at the foot of a gentle slope 
some forty yards from the back of the building, or 
to play in the ice-houses, most fascinating places 
which were built along the river’s edge. So, at 
my wit’s end for amusement, I started to imitate 
some of the adventures of a certain “ Tiny Pig,” 
an imaginary being who seemed to be quite as 


14 the memoirs of a little girl . 


clever as “Brer Rabbit” or “ Reineke Fuchs,” 
judging from the exploits I used to hear my little 
sister’s nurse relating to her. At one point in 
his career he made his escape from his enemies, 
so ran the chronicle, by getting into a barrel and 
rolling down hill, far faster than they could run. 
The hill was there ; so was the barrel. What 
fun it would be to try it ! Of course I didn’t care 
to keep on my way until I rolled into the river, 
so I chose a spot where a conveniently placed 
woodshed would stop the barrel before it reached 
the brink. I had not then read of the tortures of 
Regulus at the hands of the Carthaginians, or I 
might have more carefully examined the sides of 
the barrel before venturing to make a descent in 
it. Chuckling to myself, entirely confident of the 
result of my exploit, I crawled in and started the 
barrel. It rolled on, gently at first, then faster 
and faster, until I seemed to lose all conscious- 
ness. At length, with what seemed terrible force, 
it struck the side of the woodshed and poor 
“ Tiny Pig ” crawled out, battered and bruised, 
lacerated and bleeding from the sharp nails 
which protruded through the barrel’s sides. 

My first thought was to wonder whether any- 
one had seen my hasty and undignified descent. 
I peered anxiously about. No one was in sight. 
The back windows of the hotel stared back 
blankly, empty of spectators. I heaved a sigh of 
relief and set to work to repair, as well as I could. 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 15 

the disorder of my appearance. It was many 
years before I told any one of my attempt to give 
a practical demonstration of the romantic achieve- 
ments of “ Tiny Pig.” 

I soon forgot both my misadventures, and the 
other children forgot to tease me, in the aosorb- 
ingly interesting topic which occupied everybody’s 
attention at that time. People were always get- 
ting drowned in Lep^re. It seemed almost as 
though the Fox River ran through the town for 
the double purpose of carrying down logs to the 
mills, and of drowning off the superduous popula- 
tion. The river had lately claimed its prey in the 
shape of a worthless vagabond, the town drunk- 
ard, known as “ Old ” Jim O’Brien. Jim was not 
very old, and, barring his excesses in the way of 
drink, was a healthy enough specimen of manhood. 
The town buried him ; the town shed no tears 
over his untimely taking-off and would promptly 
have forgotten him, if it hadn’t occurred to some 
one that his coffin had seemed a good deal heavier 
than it ought to have been. People talked for 
two or three days, and finally, the rumors grew 
to such an extent that the grave was examined. 
Sure enough — instead of burying “Old” Jim, 
they had buried a pine log. 

The news spread like wildfire. Who had taken 
the body and where had it been hidden ? No- 
body knew, but everybody suspected, at first, Dr. 
Risk, a young physician, living at the National 


1 6 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL, 


Hotel, and his friend, a druggist on the nearest 
corner, who dabbled in medicine, under the doc- 
tor’s tutelage. But Dr. Risk talked so indignantly 
of the outrage, of the horror of grave desecrating, 
that suspicion passed him by. 

We children listened and shivered. We had 
never feared “ Old Jim ” alive, even in his cups. 
We were wofully afraid of him, now that he was 
dead. We suspected every empty room, every 
dark corner, of being Jim’s hiding-place. It was 
said that his body was hidden in one of the ice- 
houses, that it was buried beneath sawdust near 
the riverside, that it was in this man’s cellar or 
that man’s attic. Willie Miller, Fannie Burt, 
little Louise T^treau and I pressed closer together 
as we talked in fearful whispers of the gruesome 
thing. 

Willie said scornfully “ Who’s afraid of ‘ Old 
Jim ? ’ I ain’t.” But later in the evening, when it 
came time for him to go home, he begged us 
girls to walk there with him. It was a few rods 
away, on the same street as the hotel. 

“ I’ll teach you to row my boat to-morrow if 
you will,” said Willie persuasively to me. 
“ Mebbe we’ll catch some fish. I’ve got a real 
hook and there’s lots of worms in our back yard, 
only ma said I wasn’t to dig it up any more. 
But I guess she’ll let me get a few,” he added 
hopefully. “Come on, Bess, don’t be a ’fraid 
cat.” 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 17 

“You’re the 'fraid cat,” I retorted. “ You’re 
afraid to walk home ’cause it’s dark. I’m not 
afraid — I just don’t feel like walking,” I demon- 
strated my weariness by sitting down on the 
stairs and leaning my head against the bannister 
rail. 

“Oh, pshaw, Bess ! I didn’t mean that, really. 
Our cat has got six kittens, and ma said I could 
give some of ’em away. I thought mebbe you’d 
like to pick out one.” 

At the mention of kittens I jumped up with 
alacrity. I adored the soft, fluffy, cuddling 
things, but they always would insist on growing 
up into dignified and sleepy cats, no longer inter- 
esting, so that a new kitten was a gift not to be 
despised. I forgot our bugbear until we stepped 
out into the street, when Fannie Burt whispered 
in my ear — “ Supposin’ ‘ Old Jim ’ should reach 
out from under the sidewalk and grab your foot ! ” 
Overcome by the horror of the very probable pic- 
ture she had called up, she turned and fled back 
into the house, little Louise T^treau shrieking at 
her heels. I stood my ground stoutly, although 
chills were chasing each other down my back. 

“ I forgot,” I remarked, with elaborate careless- 
ness, “but my mother said last time that I 
brought a kitten home that I wasn’t to bring any 
more for ever and ever so long. I’ll ask her to- 
morrow if I can’t have one, though,” I added, 
fearing to lose the coveted prize. 

2 


1 8 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


Willie was at his wit’s end. He hung about 
disconsolately, feeling that he had exhausted his 
/•esources but unwilling to give up, and tread 
that dark path alone. Suddenly he brightened. 
“ There’s our hired girl and her beau. Good 
night, Bess. Hold on, Mary — wait for me,” he 
shouted, darting after the pair, who were just 
then passing the hotel. He was probably an un- 
welcome addition to their party of two, and 
doubtless shortened their leavetaking at the back- 
gate, but Willie was not sensitive, and was per- 
fectly satisfied to make his way home under 
escort of any sort. 


CHAPTER III. 


The little town wore an air of subdued and 
mysterious excitement the next morning. Before 
I had breakfasted, Willie Miller was shouting 
under our windows for me to come out. I 
thought of the kitten, and completed my toilet 
hastily. Willie was waiting outside. 

“Say,” he exclaimed, bursting with eagerness, 
“they’ve found him !” 

“ Found him ! ” I repeated stupidly. “ What ? 
'Old Jim ’ — really ? Where was he ?” 

“ In Dr. Denison’s drug-store cellar. He’s in 
there now, and Dr. Denison and Dr. Risk put 
him there. The Irish Catholics are going to 
lynch ’em. They’re hunting for them now. 
Hooray, lets go and see the fun ! ” 

Willie gave vent to his feelings by letting out a 
terrific Indian war-whoop and kicking up his heels 
a little, as he started to run down the street. He 
had wasted all the time he could afford, and was 
off to hang on to the outskirts of the mob. For 
a mob there was. I could see a crowd coming 
down the street. In front of them, bareheaded 
and walking backwards, was a man whom I 
recognized as Judge Jewett. I could not hear 


20 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


what he was saying, but by his gestures I saw 
that he was attempting to pacify them. One of 
the men was carrying a rope, which he flourished 
in the air ; two others bore a ladder between 
them. “String ’em up!” I heard some one 
shout. 

I realized the situation. The hotel was almost 
deserted, for every one was out hearing the news, 
or forming the throng which surrounded Den- 
ison’s drug-store. What if Dr. Risk were in his 
room ? The mob were evidently coming to look 
for him there. 

I darted into the hall and down the stairway, 
and, with a mighty effort, pushed the heavy door 
to and shot the bolt. I flew breathlessly up two 
flights of stairs. I wasn’t particularly fond of 
Dr. Risk — his was not an attractive personality 
— but I did not wish him to be hanged. I 
knocked at his door with eager, trembling 
hands. “ Who’s there ? ” a voice inquired. 

“ It’s me, Dr. Risk — Bessie Benton. They’re 
coming to hang you. Run — hide — quick ! ” 

The door opened, and the doctor, pale and 
agitated, caught me by the wrist. “ What’s that 
you say ? ” he asked. 

“ They’ve found out — old Jim O’Brien. The 
Catholics — they’re going to lynch you,” I stam- 
mered. “ Oh, quick ! ” 

“ If you’re deceiving me, Bessie ” The 

doctor gave me an ugly look, but did not finish. 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 2 1 


Sounds from below made him turn even more 
ghastly. They were trying to force the hall 
door. Some one shouted, “ Go through the 
bar.” 

For heaven’s sake, Bessie, what shall I do ? ” 
gasped the frightened man. 

“ In my room — come. They won’t know 
you’re there.” I half dragged him down the 
stairs, one flight, to my own room. It was just 
as I had left it, a few minutes before. My little 
sister, a picture of innocent, cherubic loveliness, 
lay, still fast asleep, in the bed. 

“ Get under the bed — be quick ! ’Way under — 
I can see you.” I dragged off a part of the cov- 
ering, so that it hung down and concealed his 
form. None too soon. I went out into the hall 
and closed the door after me as the mob reached 
the head of the stairs. Judge Jewett, his coat 
half torn from his shoulders, was still trying to 
hold them back, and with him was my father, 
trying too, with all his might, to check their 
progress. I ran, with a frightened sob in my 
throat, to my father’s side. 

“ What are you doing here, Bessie ? ” he asked 
sternly. “ Go into your room and lock the 
door.” 

As I obeyed him, the mob rushed on. They 
wereTn the third story. With a howl of rage 
they Hung open the room whence their prey had 
escaped. “We’ll find him yet. He« here !’ 


22 THE MEMOIRS OE A LITTLE GIRL. 


some one of them cried. I could hear them 
opening, or forcing, the doors of the rooms 
above (it was the uppermost story except one — 
the theatre). Then they came back to the second 
floor. I heard my father cry : “ Men, men, 
have you no shame ? This is my wife’s room ! ” 
Still the search went on. They were hammering 
at my door. My mother, half fainting, and par- 
tially dressed, came through the door that 
opened from her room into mine. 

“ Open and have it over,” she exclaimed. 
“You can see that there is no one here.” 

“ Have either of you seen that body- 
snatcher ? ” asked one of the leaders. 

My little sister awoke and sat up in bed rub- 
bing her eyes. Seeing the rough, strange men 
about, she commenced to cry. My mother 
snatched her up and began to soothe the fright- 
ened child. 

“ I’ve just got up,” I said calmly. It seemed 
as though they must hear the loud thumping of 
my heart. “ 1 haven’t been to breakfast yet ! 
Who are you looking for ? ” 

“You can see for yourselves,” exclaimed my 
father indignantly. “ I know your names. 

I know you, McManus, and you, Gallagher. 
You shall answer for this outrage.” 

A little humbled, a trifle cooled down, they 
pressed on, out of the room. Needless to say, 
they did not find the doctor, who, secreted in an- 


THE* MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 23 

other room of the hotel until nightfall, was 
driven under cover of darkness to the nearest 
town, five miles away. He went by rail from 
there to Chicago, lor a change of scene, and it 
was some time before he ventured to show him- 
self in Lep^re again. When he did, the hot- 
blooded, impulsive, lawless fellows who had led 
the outbreak against him, had almost forgotten 
Jim O’Brien. 

It leaked out gradually what my part in the 
affair had been, and, greatly to my surprise and 
relief, the Irish Catholics showed no desire to 
hang me in place of Dr. Risk. Willie Miller, 
however, remarked that girls always spoiled 
everything. “ You might have let them get him 
and give him a scare,” he said to me. “Some 
one would 'a cut him down before he choked to 
death. I never saw a hanging, and I wanted to 
see one.” 

It is probable that the doctor did not share 
Willie’s optimistic view of the situation. 


CHAPTER IV. 


“Come on, Bess, I’ve got something to show 
you.” Willie Miller had evidently become pos- 
sessed of a treasure. His face was shining with 
delight and excitement. I was anxious to please 
him, for I had felt keenly his strictures on my in- 
terference in behalf of Dr. Risk, so I followed 
meekly when he beckoned. At a safe distance 
from the house, he showed me the contents of the 
little package he was carrying, live neatly-rolled 
cigars and a dozen or so of matches, “ I’m go- 
ing to smoke ’em,” he said. “ Come on down to 
the boat-house and see me. I got ’em all for a 
nickel.” 

“ Oh, Willie, do you know how ? Mamma said 
I must never go down to the boat-house, though.” 

“ Oh, come along. It ain’t going to drown you 
just to go into the boat-house and see me smoke.” 

I had scruples, however, and Willie finally 
compromised on a secluded corner of the big 
hotel woodshed, against which “Tiny Pig ” had 
come to a full stop. I watched for a time, with 
reverential awe, then a desire to emulate his 
prowess began to take possession of me. 

“ Let me smoke one, Willie,” I pleaded. 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


25 

“ Girls don’t smoke,” replied the young auto- 
crat, conscious of the superiority of years and 
sex. He was three years my senior. 

“ I read that Cuban ladies smoke cigars, just 
like the men. Just let me try. Let’s pretend I’m 
a Cuban. Old Irishwomen smoke, too. I’ve 
seen ’em.” 

“ Well, anyhow, the young ones don’t, and the 
old women only smoke pipes. But I’ve got 
more’n I’ll want here to- day, I guess, and you 
can try one.” 

• A hall an hour later, I left Willie curled up in 
a dark corner of the wood-house. He seemed 
very wretched indeed, so wretched that I should 
have hesitated to leave him alone, had he not 
shown every evidence of a desire to get rid of me, 
and had I not begun to feel a similar need for 
solitude. I was dreadfully ill. It seemed, at 
times, that I was about to die, and my sole con- 
solation in my agonies was that I had not dis- 
obeyed my mother and gone to the boat-house. 
Perhaps I stood some chance of going to heaven. 

I should have liked to kiss them all good-bye, I 
thought, but 1 hadn’t time. I hadn’t time for 
anything. 

I had hidden away in an empty room of the 
hotel, and it was dark before I finally crawled 
out of my retirement. For me, time was no 
more. I realized that the supper hour must long 
have been past, but I didn’t care for that. My 


26 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


appetite seemed permanently lost. As I wan- 
dered unsteadily in the direction of my room, I 
thought of Willie’s probable fate. He had 
smoked two cigars, or nearly two, I less than 
one. He was undoubtedly dead. No constitu- 
tion could stand such a strain. I began to cry. 
Willie had his faults. He was inclined to be 
overbearing and to put on superior airs. He was 
not always truthful, but we had been friends. I 
wished that I had walked home with him that 
night when we were all so afraid of “ Old Jim.” 
I might have been kinder and more sympathetic 
that afternoon, too. I might have stayed with him 
and held his head. Here I shuddered retrospec- 
tively. 

As I entered my door, I ran into Nora, our 
Irish nurse. She gave a howl that nearly shat- 
tered my already weakened nerves. 

“ Bessie Benton, you bad girl ! Where’ve you 
been ? And they dhraggin’ the river for you this 
blessed minute, and yer poor mother in fits in her 
room. Don’t ye go in there, now ” — barring my 
path. “ The docthor has given her some ’orphine, 
and put the poor lady to slape. Oh, ye bad 
child ! ” 

“ IVe been out walking, Nora. I couldn’t get 
home any sooner,” I replied, with some dignity. 
“ Are they really dragging the river? ” I felt a 
thrill of importance at the idea. 

“ Coorse they are. See the lights down there.'' 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRE 27 

She pointed out of the window. Lanterns twin- 
kled fitfully along the river’s edge, their reflection 
broken and multiplied in the swift flowing stream. 
I could hear the men shouting hoarse commands 
to each other. I had often before seen the same 
sight, when the cruel river claimed its prey, but 
I had never felt such a personal interest in the 
search. It was like assisting at one’s own fu- 
neral. And down among the crowd thatvvatched 
the grim work going on, was Willie Miller, appar- 
ently as lively as ever. I experienced a sudden 
revulsion of feeling. I never wanted to look at 
that boy again. He faithfully kept our common 
secret, how^ever, perhaps quite as much on his 
own account as on mine, and I owed him some 
measure of gratitude for that. 

My somewhat vague accounts of where and 
how I had spent the afternoon were received with 
a credulity that filled me with shame and remorse. 
My mother and father were so overjoyed by my 
safe return that they were not disposed to press 
me for a circumstantial account of my doings on 
that day. I was treated with consideration of 
which I felt myself so entirely unworthy that I 
determined then and there to be a better girl. 

This resolve of mine was further strengthened 
by some peculiar appearances in the sky which 
began about that time to manifest themselves. 
The ignorant and superstitious servants whis- 
pered to each other and to us children that the 


28 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


red glare which nightly illumined the heavens 
was a certain sign of the approaching end of the 
world. I am not sure that this notion was en- 
tirely confined to them, either. Crowds of people 
assembled nightly in the streets, gazing at the 
lurid skies, advancing all sorts of theories as to 
their cause. One man pretended to have made 
out the shape of a flaming sword ; another, that 
of a cross, pointing directly downward. Revival 
meetings began to be held by a few excited Mil- 
lerites, and the camp meeting in progress near 
our town had a large attendance. 

My customary morning and evening prayers 
seemed totally inadequate to such a state of 
affairs, and I made frequent extemporized peti- 
tions for mercy and forgiveness, almost suffoca- 
ting myself in the attempt to say them in the 
little clothes-press of my room. I took the Bible 
literally in those days, and remembered the ad- 
monition to go into one’s closet and close the 
door before offering up prayers. 

Gradually, however, the roseate heavens paled 
to their wonted color — the clear, brilliant blue of 
the western skies against which the stars seem 
twice magnified, — and gradually our terrors be- 
came appeased. The Millerites put away their 
ascension robes, the camp-meeting closed. 
School bells began to ring, as the first touch of 
autumnal crispness revivified the air. I stopped 
praying in my closet. There was no time for 


THE MEMOmS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 29 

that now, and besides, I argued, it wasn’t neces- 
sary any more. Evidently the old world had de- 
cided to swing around its orbit for an indefinite 
period. My unnatural meekness and amiability 
vanished, and I was once more the little tomboy 
of former days. 


CHAPTER V. 


The Tareaus were French Canadians who 
lived not very far from the National Hotel and 
very close to the river, Little Louise, my some- 
time playmate, was the youngest of the family, 
and this was her first year at school. She was 
two years younger than I, and I was somewhat 
inclined to patronize and occasionally to snub 
her, but, being such near neighbors, we often 
walked together to school. She found the con- 
finement of school irksome, and was often a tru- 
ant. We did not have kindergartens in those 
days, at least, not out in Wisconsin. School- 
work consisted of tasks, not of amusements, even 
for little six-year olds like Louise. 

One morning, late in September, she did not 
run out to join me, as usual, and I felt no sur- 
prise when I saw her place vacant at school. 
Probably I thought nothing at all about it. At 
roll call in the afternoon she was still absent. 
Miss Briggs paused a moment after her name, 
and looked up at the little vacant desk, then 
went on without comment. At two o’clock, 
when the entire school was engaged in a big 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 31 

spelling-match, Louise’s eldest sister, L^onie, 
came into the school-room. She was pale and 
out of breath. She had evidently been walking 
very fast. There was a hasty, whispered conver- 
sation between her and Miss Briggs. Then the 
school-mistress asked in her clear, precise tones, 
“Children, have any of you seen Louise T^treau 
to-day ? ” 

The silence was oppressive ; not one of us, I 
fancy, but thought of the river, the cruel de- 
vourer of so many lives. At length. Miss Briggs 
gave L^onie an expressive glance. The girl 
burst into tears, and, with her handkerchief 
pressed to her eyes Ic.t the room. 

When I reached home that afternoon they had 
already begun to drag the river. Louise’s hat 
and a little tin pail that she played with had 
been found on the brink at noon. A log floating 
in the water was close to the shore — so easy to 
mistake for a sure foothold. Madame T^treau, 
wringing her hands and sobbing, was walking 
up and down the bank. They could not per- 
suade her to leave the river-side, and there she 
stayed the rest of the day, a tragic figure, in 
whose presence the idly curious shrank back 
awestruck, 

I did not sleep well that night. From my fit- 
ful slumber I awoke many times, to hear the 
clanking of the boat-hooks and chains, the gruff 
voices of the searchers. At daybreak the little 


32 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

cannon began to boom, with a heavy, ominous 
jar that shook the house. 

I did not go to school that day. I don’t think 
that anyone did, for I saw Miss Briggs on the 
bridge later in the morning, Everyone was 
searching for chubby, laughing little Louise. 
Some were pretending to look for her in other 
places, but, in our hearts, w'e all knew that she 
was in the river. We all came back to that. 
After a while they dragged the cannon away, 
It was too soon, some one said. They would try 
it again next day. 

Late in the afternoon I stood among the 
crowd on the drawbridge, my hand fast clasped 
in my mother’s. I shall never forget that sight. 
The crowded bridge, full of people that w'e 
knew, the boats thick around it, the lowering 
sky, and on the bank the mournful figure of the 
distracted mother. A young man whom we all 
knew came slowly out of the T^treau’s house, 
dressed in swimming tights He was going to 
dive for the body, they said. As he paused 
a moment on the bridge, poised for the dive, a 
murmur ran through the crowd. One of the 
grappling hooks had caught in something. The 
young man drew back while they brought the 
burden slowly to the surface. I heard Madame 
T^treau’s wild shriek, as my mother led me 
quickly away, and I clung to her side, sobbing. 

I never liked the river after that — never longed 


THE MEA/O/ES OF A LITTLE GIRL. 33 

to play on the banks as I had so often wished to 
do. Soon it froze over, and then it seemed to 
lose its sinister look in some degree. It was 
covered with skaters. One could drive for miles 
on the ice in perfect security. The monster was 
sleeping, surfeited with the blood of its innocent 
victims, but I knew it \vould waken again in the 
spring, eager for fresh sacrifices, and so I was 
not sorry that never again was I to sport in its 
waves, or to see it dimpling in the sunshine 
when I looked from my window. 

When summer came again we were about to 
leave Lep^re. The winter had brought many 
changes. 

My father had embarked in some new enter- 
prise which was to make him a large fortune. 
I used to hear it talked of, and of how we were 
to return with our riches to the East, for which 
my parents had never ceased to be homesick. 
Instead of gaining wealth, however, my father 
lost the modest fortune which had made our 
lives pleasant and easy, if not splendid. The 
big gray house behind the lilac trees was sold, 
and with it a great deal of our furniture. The 
remainder was packed and stored. 

My grandparents, who lived on a farm in the 
northern part of the state, sent for us to spend 
the summer with them, for it now became neces- 
sary to count the cost of living. My father went 
to Missouri, hoping to find some business open-. 

3 


34 the memoirs of a little girl . 

ing there, and my poor mother, with her two 
little ones, started on her journey northward. It 
must have been a sad trip for her — her soft, 
brown eyes were often reddened and swollen 
from nights of weeping, — but to my sister and me 
it was full of novelty and excitement. Certainly 
it did not lack anything in variety. 

We started from Lep^re by rail and spent the 
first night away from home at a town which was 
the railroad terminus. Early the next morning 
we embarked on a small steamer to make the 
second stage of our journey. This was the most 
fascinating part of it. It was the Fox River on 
whose bosom we were floating along, but these 
smiling shores, thickly wooded almost to the 
water’s edge, this gently winding stream, seemed 
very different from the busy slave that turned its 
strength to do so many tasks, and, in turn ex- 
acted such a forfeit of human life from the town 
whose bread it gained. Along these banks was 
no busy hum of mills — the only sound that broke 
the stillness was the puffing of our engine 'and 
the splash of our paddle-wheels. 

This charming experience came to an end all 
too soon, and, at a lonely landing — nothing but 
a rude pier with a small log-house at the end — 
we disembarked. There awaited us an old- 
fashioned stage-coach, drawn by four horses, 
into whose stifling interior we were packed with 
the other passengers. Then began the roughest 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 35 

ride I ever experienced. The road, mostly cor- 
duroy — that is, of unhewn logs laid crosswise 
close together — led through a dense forest, and, 
in places, through swamps so deep that even the 
corduroy had sunk nearly out of sight. Occa- 
sionally the coach would become hopelessly stuck 
and we would all have to alight. There was 
no roadside where we could stand. The men 
had to carry us back or forward a little distance 
and leave us in the middle of the road until they 
could extricate the clumsy vehicle and go on 
again. Then they would climb back inside, 
their high boots plastered almost to the knee 
with black mud or sticky red clay. The violent 
swaying and lurching of the coach soon made 
the women and children ill. I don’t think that I 
ever experienced a worse attack of seasickness. 
Limp and exhausted we finally reached Milford, 
just at sunset, and at my uncle’s home there 
we spent the second night of our journey. 


CHAPTER VI. 


What a glorious summer followed ! There 
were no tramps in that inaccessible region — farm- 
houses were too far apart and the walking was 
too bad — so I was allowed to roam about pretty 
freely, and I made the most of those long summer 
days. 

The next morning after our arrival in Milford 
we left for my grandfather’s farm, six miles 
distant. Grandfather Boyce drove my mother 
and my little sister out there in his buggy. I 
followed with his man Jonas, and the trunks, 
drawn by a slow and dignified ox-team. Horses 
were not plentiful there, and all the heavy wmrk 
was done by oxen. We arrived at the farm long 
after the others, and, to my regret, the sun went 
down before I had a chance to explore half of 
that region of new delights. I went to sleep 
with the mournful note of the whippoorwill sound- 
ing in my ears and dreamed all night of cows 
and chickens, of fish of colossal size and birds in 
whose nests were found eggs like jewels. 1 
awoke in the rosy dawn after a terrific struggle 
with a great, green, luminous-eyed frog, to find 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 37 

m3' grandmother's big Maltese cat sitting on my 
chest and purring contentedly. Under ordinary 
circumstances I should have welcomed such a 
visitor and have stopped to play wjth her, but, 
through the cool, fresh air rang sounds that told 
me that the world was awaking and I sprang 
from my bed, eager to be present at the milking. 
Jonas was singing, in a mellow, pleasant voice, 
something which always took the place of a 
milking song with him. I could hear his ex- 
postulatory “ So boss, so there ! ’’ and the clatter- 
ing of the milk pails. Hastily dressing myself I 
slipped down the stairs and out to the cow-yard.. 
Jonas was already at work, assisted by the young 
woman, a neighboring farmer’s daughter, who 
“ aided in the housework ” — such was her de- 
scription of her position. Jonas and Luella had 
some sort of a permanent flirtation going on be- 
tween them all summer, probably because the 
neighborhood was so thinly settled that they were 
forced to find most of their amusement within the 
limits of the farm. They were alternately quar- 
relling and chaffing when I made my appearance. 
The placid-faced cows looked at me in mild as- 
tonishment. This small capering person was 
something new to them and old “ Mooly,” who 
had a crooked horn, kicked out a little as I 
passed her, nearly upsetting Jonas. “ Dern ye,” 
he shouted, slapping the refractory cow’s flank. 
“ Hold still thar, will ye ? ” I drank a glass of 


38 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

the fresh milk, warm and foaming from the pail, 
and begged Jonas to call me early the next morn- 
ing and let me assist with the milking, instead of 
Luella. That young woman got up with alac- 
rity from her milking-stool and invited me to take 
her place at once. I was somewhat mystified by 
her willingness to give up so fascinating an oc- 
cupation, and still further astonished by my in- 
ability to press out one drop of milk into the pail. 
Jonas’s loud guffaw and Luella’s shrill cackle at 
my amazement made me put forth all my 
strength, but without result. I rose, somewhat 
disconcerted, and Luella resumed her place, re- 
marking dryly that “ there was a few things city 
folks didn’t know.” 

I felt hurt, for I was conscious only of admira- 
tion and of a desire to emulate all that I saw, 
even to Luella’s somewhat remarkable style of 
hairdressing ; it was so original, I thought. Nig, 
my grandfather’s big black dog, came frisking 
about just then, in his overgrown puppy fashion. 

He seemed glad to make my acquaintance, and, 
unlike Luella and the cows, showed no- evidence 
of a desire to humiliate me, or to think any the 
less of me, because I had been born and bred in 
a town. We engaged in a lively romp which 
lasted until the breakfast-bell recalled us to an 
idea of time and of duties to be performed. It 
was a summons that Nig seemed to understand 
quite as well as I, for he started pell-mell for the 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


39 


house as soon as it began to sound. The cats 
were all there, too, ahead of us. Their manner 
was less eager and more dignified, but their in- 
terest was no less deep. Grandpa, a very small 
eater himself, always fed them with scraps from 
time to time during the progress ofthemeal. My 
grandmother, who had a very keen sense of pro- 
priety, invariably said that the cats and the dog 
must go, that she would not permit their pres- 
ence in the dining-room at another meal. Hav- 
ing said this, she appeared to think her duty was 
done and she took no more notice of the animals 
until their next appearance in the dining-room, 
when she would again say the same thing. At 
first I took her very literally and used to put in a 
plea that they might be allowed to stay, but after 
a while I grew to understand my grandmother's 
peculiarities so well that I wisely held my peace. 
She was a very' sweet and kindly old lady, whose 
natural gentleness was somewhat marred by what 
seemed to me then an abnormal sense of duty. 
“ Spare the rod and spoil the child,” “ Pride 
goeth before a fall,” “ Beauty is but skin deep,” 
“ Handsome is that handsome does,” and a host 
of other proverbs of a similar tone were house- 
hold words with her, and were unpleasantly sug- 
gestive to my childish ears. My grandfather was 
better fun. He was so sympathetic and so gen- 
ial. His stock of fairy-tales and stories of ad- 
venture seemed inexhaustible, and he knew how 


40 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

to make with his hands, the most amusing shadow 
pictures on the wall. He extemporized on any 
subject delightful doggerel verses which seemed 
to me quite as good poetry as I had ever heard 
anywhere. I trotted after him as he went about 
the farm, perfectly enchanted with his society. 
But grandpa had his hours of rest, which, from 
my standpoint, took up far too much of the day. 
Kitty was too young to be an available compan- 
ion for my more serious expeditions. When I 
took up the little tishing-rod my grandfather had 
fashioned for me and started for the creek that 
ran through a portion of the farm about an eighth 
of a mile from the house, my mother usually 
called to me to take Nig along. Nig was always 
glad to go, but he had too many ideas of the re- 
sources of these woods through which our road 
lay. He almost invariably branched off from the 
main path and, before long, I would hear him at 
a distance, barking in a high, excited key that 
told me he had run to earth some small game. 
Sometimes he rejoined me, as I sat fishing from 
the little bridge, tired and overheated, his nose 
and paws covered with the soil in which he had 
been burrowing for a woodchuck or a gopher, 
but oftenest he went home without troubling him- 
self further about me. I took his desertion quite 
philosophically for I was afraid of nothing, and 
the fishing, which was excellent, kept me from 
getting dull or lonely. 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 41 


One afternoon, as I sat on the bridge alone, 
and the sun’s rays were beginning to fall aslant, 
I heard a step strike on the planks at the other 
end. Looking up, I saw a slender dusty figure 
approaching me with uncertain step. A country 
wagon occasionally had passed me, as I sat thus 
engaged, but this was the first foot-passenger I 
had ever seen crossing the bridge, and I eyed the 
young man with interest. He glanced at my little 
string of fish with an eager look, and asked me 
in a weak voice, with a certain shrinking in his 
manner, if the fishing were good. Just then 1 
pulled up a particularly plump and lively perch 
which I proudly held up as an evidence that it 
was. His large hollow eyes grew bright. 

“ Let me take him oft for you,” he said, seizing 
the line. I noticed how his hand trembled and 
could not help thinking that I could have got the 
fish off more quickly myself. He ran his fingers 
along the plump sides of the struggling fish, as I 
again threw back my line into the water. 

“ They must be very nice to eat,” he said. 

“ They’re awfully good,” I replied affably, won 
by the stranger’s interest. “ You just ought to 
taste one that my grandma has fried. But it’s 
more fun to catch them than to eat them, I think.” 
1 struggled for a moment with two conflicting 
emotions : hospitality to the stranger triumphed 
and I handed over the rod to him. “ Wouldn’t you 
like to catch one and just see what fun it is ? ” 


42 THE MEMOIRS OF A L.'TTLE GIRL. 

He seized the rod eagerly. “ Oh, thank you, 
you’re very good,” he said, throwing out the bait 
with tremulous hands. 

“ That’s not the way,” I said. “ You’re drag- 
ging it. They’ll never bite that. Just hold 
it up — so — ^just a teeny bit away from the 
bottom.” 

“Thank you,” he replied, steadying the rod 
and holding it as I indicated. His manners really 
seemed very nice. I looked at him closely. He 
would have been quite good-looking, if he were 
not so thin and so ill, I thought. 

“ Have you been sick .? ” I asked sympathetic- 
ally. “ Wouldn’t you like to rest awhile at my 
grandpapa’s, up the road a little way ? ” 

He looked down at his dusty shoes and stained 
and ragged clothing. “ Oh, no, thank you. 
You’re very good, but you see I’m in walking 
trim. I really don’t look fit to go into any one’s 
house.” 

“ There ! ” I cried, jumping up excitedly. 
“You’ve got a bite ! It’s a big one. Pull him 
in.” 

He was so slow and so unhandy that the fish 
escaped. He seemed disappointed and asked me 
if he might not try again. I assented readily 
enough and once more he threw out the line. 

“ Is it very far from here to Milford ? ” he in- 
quired, after we had watched the line for a few 
minutes in silence. 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 43 

“ About six miles by the road, but I’ve heard 
that there was a little shorter cut. Are you going 
there ? My Uncle Henry and his wife live in 
Milford.” 

“ Yes, I started for there this morning. I 
thought, perhaps, I could get there before sun- 
down.” 

“ Well, I don’t believe you will — there’s lots of 
hills on the way. There — pull ! No, you’ve lost 
him again. You ought to pay more attention,” 
I added a little severely. 

The young man smiled and looked at me apol- 
ogetically. He certainly was rather nice look- 
ing, and his teeth were beautiful. “ I’m not used 
to this kind of fishing, you see. I’ve always 
fished in a great lake, where the fish were very 
large. I hardly notice these little fellows when 
they bite.” 

“ Well you’d notice if a big sunfish got hold. 
They ’most pull the rod out of my hands some- 
times. If mamma would let me have a real hook, 
I could catch a large fish — I know there are some 
here, for they steal my bait and get away and the 
pin straightens right out — but mamma is afraid 
I’d get it in my fingers. I wouldn’t though, but 
mothers are always afraid of everything — ’fraid 
you’ll get drowned, or run over, or carried off, or 
you’ll fall, or a dog’ll bite you or — so?nething, all 
the time.” 

My companion sighed. “I expect we give the 


44 the memoirs OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

poor dear mothers lots to worry about, little girl. 
I wish I’d been a better boy to mine.” 

“ Is she dead 1 Oh, I’m so sorry ! ” I exclaimed, 
as he nodded silently. I saw that there were 
tears in his eyes and I edged up a little closer. 
He couldn’t be a tramp. Tramps didn’t talk that 
way and I noticed that his hands were as nice as 
my own brother’s. “Say,” — I went on, feeling 
more and more friendly to this forlorn creature — 
“you’d better come up to my house to supper 
and stay all night. Grandpa will let you. Lots 
of people stay on their way to Milford. I heard 
grandpa say once that no one should ever be 
turned away hungry or tired from his door.” 

My companion did not immediately reply, as 
he succeeded just then in catching and landing 
a very nice fish with which he seemed much 
pleased. He gave me back the rod, thanking me 
for letting him “ have a try at it,” as he said. 
Then he remarked, hesitating a little, that I was 
very kind to invite him. “ I think I’d better not 
accept, though,” he added. “ I don’t look fit to 
go into a gentleman’s house, but I’m very tired. 
Perhaps your grandfather wouldn’t mind letting 
me sleep in the barn.” 

“ Yes, he would,” I replied promptly. “ He 
won’t let anybody do that. A man slept in his 
barn once — grandpa didn’t know he was there* 
you know — and he burnt it down, and came run- 
ning out when it was all afire. He smoked a 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 45 

pipe, and went to sleep, and it caught in the 
hay.” 

“ Well, I haven’t a pipe or any matches, but of 
course I won’t ask him, if you say not. I guess 
I must go on now, though, if I’m to get to Milford 
to-night.” He started to fasten the fish he had 
caught, on my string. 

“ No, you keep that,” I said. “ I’ve got plenty. 
Perhaps when you get to the hotel at Milford 
they’ll cook it for your supper.” 

" I shouldn’t wonder,” replied the young man 
dryly. He seemed pleased, though, and taking a 
string from his pocket fastened it through the 
fish’s gills. 

I noticed that the sun was getting low, and so, 
rising, said that I would walk along with him as 
far as our gate. 

“ You walk awfully slow for a man,” I said at 
length. “ You must be very tired.” 

“ Yes — a little — but I’ll be all right when I get 
to Milford and that nice hotel you were telling 
about. Would you do me a great favor,” he 
added hesitatingly. “ I haven’t any matches left. 
Couldn’t you get me just two or three ? ” 

“ Of course, I’ll run in and get them, or you 
come, too. I’d like you to see my grandpa. 
He’s ever so nice.” 

“ No, thank you ; I’ll wait out here by the road- 
side.” He sat down on a rock by a clump of 
bushes. You won’t mind bringing them out, 


46 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


will you ? I’ll be so grateful. And don’t tell 
any one, please,” he added. 

I ran nimbly down the hill on whose slope the 
house was built and threw my string of fish on a 
bench by the kitchen door. 

Luellawas alone in the kitchen getting supper. 
“ Here you come, dirtying everything up, as 
usual,” was her salutation. “ What are you 
doing with them matches ? Don’t you touch 
another one. I’ll tell your grandma on you,” she 
called after me as I escaped and ran off to rejoin 
my new friend with my hand full of purloined 
matches. 


CHAPTER VII. 


When I ran out of the gate into the road, the 
stranger had disappeared. I was both mystified 
and disappointed. I looked towards Milford 
and thought that he must have walked a great 
deal faster than before in order to get out of 
sight so soon. I don’t know what prompted me 
to do it, but I went slowly back to the rock 
where but a moment before I had left him sit- 
ting. There he lay beside it, half hidden by the 
low’ bushes into which he had fallen. His face 
w’as ghastly, his eyes closed. 

" Oh, mamma, grandpa ! ” I screamed, start- 
ing for the house as fast as my legs w^ould carry 
me. “ Oh ! Oh ! there’s a dead man by the 
road ! ” I had seen w’omen faint, but I didn’t 
suppose that men ever sw’ooned or cried. Those 
must surely be feminine accomplishments. 

My screams brought the whole household out 
of doors. Even Luella deserted her post, and 
the smell of burning cakes filled the air. My 
grandfather and Jonas bore the slender, limp 
form between them. They carried him into the 
^itting-rooni and l^id him down on the great 


48 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


hair-cloth sofa which, with its big cushions and 
knit afghan, was such a haven for the weary. 

“ Poor boy,” I heard my grandmother say, 
“SO young and so friendless ! ” 

They were holding smelling salts under his 
nose and forcing brandy between his teeth. “ Be 
quiet, Bess,” said my mother, checking my 
tears. “ He has only fainted.” 

In a few moments he opened his eyes, but 
they were wild and glassy. He called my grand- 
mother, who was bending over him “ Mamma,” 
and tried to kiss her hands. I stepped for- 
ward, but he did not seem to remember me. 
Grandmother sent us all away and she and my 
grandfather put him to bed and sent Jonas 
to Milford for a doctor. “ I do hope it’s nothing 
contagious ! ” I heard my grandmother say. 

“ Nonsense, Caroline,” replied grandpapa 
stoutly. “ He’s half dead with fatigue and hun- 
ger. Make him a bowl of good strong broth 
and that’ll fetch him around.” 

After a while we went to supper, all but 
grandmamma, who refused to leave her charge. 
She had made him some soup and fed him a lit- 
tle when he would take it, but he seemed quite 
averse to taking anything. 

When we were seated at the table my story 
came out, and I told over and over again all 
that the young stranger had said and done. 

“ Poor young fellow | ” said my mother. “ He 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 49 

was probably getting matches to cook that piti- 
ful little fish.” 

I thought not, and told how I had recom- 
mended the Milford Hotel and that he hadn’t 
said that he wasn’t going there, 

" No, that boy is no beggar,” replied grand- 
papa. “ I’d like to know his history.” 

The old doctor came, a few hours later, gave 
something to check the fever, and said, as my 
grandfather had done, that it was simply the re- 
sult of hunger and lack of rest. “ He’ll be all 
right in a day or two, if you can manage to 
keep him. He doesn’t look as though he’d run 
away with the spoons. I shouldn’t wonder if he 
was playing truant from his home.” 

The next morning our guest was quite rational 
once more, although too weak to rise. He 
apologized again and again to my grandmother 
and my mother for giving them so much trouble, 
and said that he was sure that he would be able 
to resume his journey by the following day. He 
slept a great deal and seemed perfectly worn 
out, and so no one was allowed to go in and talk 
to him. Once he asked for me, and when he 
was given some fried perch for his supper, he in- 
quired if the little fisher-girl had been at work 
again. 

The next day was Sunday and we all started 
early for church, which was held in the little 
school-house, two miles away. Grandpa drove, 
4 


50 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

but my grandmother did not sit beside him as 
usual. She stayed at home with Kitty and the 
invalid. Mamma and I occupied the second 
seat and Jonas and Luella sat behind. Nig 
went, too. He had no idea of a proper Sabbath 
behavior and although he always accompanied 
us to church, he made his customary side excur- 
sions for game, and frisked and barked very 
much as usual. He knew that he must not 
enter the school-house, however, and found 
plenty of company outside while he waited for 
us. Everybody else’s dog, or dogs, came 
along, too, and I think that they probably quite 
looked forward to these Sunday meetings. 
Occasionally some misunderstanding arose 
among them and through the open windows 
came sounds of battle. Then one of the deacons 
would rise and tiptoe out, his stiff boots creak- 
ing noisily, to quell the disturbance. We would 
hear the crack of the big whip from one of the 
wagons and the sharp “ki-yi’s ” as he laid about 
vigorously with it ; then, peace restored, he 
would come creaking in again. The sermon 
went on just the same during this performance, 
but I don’t think that any one listened to it 
while the dog-fight lasted. 

Grandfather Boyce always went to sleep — 
with many interruptions from my grandmother 
when she was with him. All of the other men 
took naps, too. I used to wonder why men 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 51 

found it so impossible to keep awake and why 
the women didn’t get sleepy. To see a woman 
nodding was a rare sight. Most of them sat up 
erect and prim on the hard benches, with their 
eyes fixed steadily on the preacher. He was a 
very sad man and watered his sermons with his 
tears. From his standpoint the world was a 
Vale of Tears, we were all worms of the dust, 
life was a mournful journey toward the grave. 
He used to preach a great deal against dancing 
and the sinful amusements of worldly people ; he 
called the waltz “ the Dance of Death.” Prob- 
ably not one of his hearers knew how to dance 
and few, if any, had ever seen the inside of a 
playhouse, but his favorite theme was always the 
godless pleasures of the “ball-room and the 
theatre.” How I used to fidget and look long- 
ingly out of the window during these endless 
discourses ! It seemed impossible to sit still 
and pretend to listen, I didn’t want to really 
listen, for he made me feel too depressed and 
my spirit rebelled against his views of life. 

On this particular Sunday I was uncommonly 
impatient to get back home again, for I wanted 
very much to see my “ discovery,” as grand- 
papa called our sick man. My curiosity was 
destined to be gratified. We found him sitting 
up in an easy-chair on the piazza with Kitty be- 
side him, “amoosin’ him,” she said. He looked 
very pale, but his eyes were bright and clear. 


52 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


When we came up the piazza steps he arose, a 
quick flush coloring his cheeks, and bowing to 
my mother and grandfather, he thanked them 
very politely and gratefully for all their kindness 
to him. “ I hope, sir,” he said to grandpapa, 
“ that I shall be able to go on my way to- 
morrow, for I am ashamed to take such advan- 
tage of your hospitality.” , 

" Stay till you’re quite strong, my boy,” said 
my grandfather, patting his shoulder, with a 
friendly touch. “ You are perfectly welcome 
here.” 

My grandmother had, by her sympathetic 
questioning, drawn the young man’s story from 
him. His name was Arthur Billings, and, 
strangely enough, his home was on the shores of 
Lake Erie — in Northport — my birthplace. His 
father was a wealthy merchant who, some years 
after the death of his first wife, Arthur’s mother^ 
had married a second time. “ It was a great 
deal my fault, 1 suppose,” said Arthur, “ but we 
never got along well together. I missed my 
dear indulgent mother, and I couldn’t help 
showing it. My father’s wife thought I had 
been spoiled and started out with the idea of 
disciplining me. I was very anxious to go to 
college, for which I was nearly prepared, as my 
father had always promised to send me. She 
talked him out of it, saying that what had been 
good enough for him was quite good enough for 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 53 

me. I sulked, for father was amply able to let 
me go, but that wasn’t the right way to deal 
with him. I see that, now that it is too late. It 
made him determined to thwart me. Then I 
wanted to go into my uncle’s office and read law 
with him. Uncle was very kind and would have 
been glad to have me. My stepmother was 
against it. She made my father think that I 
despised honest work and looked down on trade, 
by which he had made his money. He got it 
into his head that I should clerk for a few years 
in his store — long enough to understand the 
business and get the nonsense knocked out of 
me, he said. Then if I did well, he would make 
me a partner. I went to work, but it made me 
sick at heart. I wasn’t suited to it, and my 
whole thought was to get away. I suppose I did 
very badly — anyway father grew more and more 
dissatisfied with me. We had a good many 
words about it, and finally, two months ago, I 
ran away, with just what little money I hap- 
pened to have about me, leaving a letter behind 
in which I said he would never see me again un- 
til I had made my own way in the world and 
was independent of him. I haven’t made much 
of a start, yet ” — the young fellow laughed a lit- 
tle bitterly. “ I thought that I would find plenty 
to do in the West, but I don’t seem to be strong 
enough for farm work or harvesting. I nearly 
had a sunstroke a week ago, trying to help a 


54 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


man with the haying and he told me he didn’t 
want a hospital on his hands and I’d better go 
somewhere else. I didn’t blame him — the work 
was heavy and the women had all they could do 
to cook and serve for the hands without stopping 
to take care of a sick man. I’ve been tramping 
most of the time in the last month. I sold my 
watch and everything else of value I had and 
the day that I met little Miss Bessie on the 
bridge I had had nothing to eat but berries. I 
never could ask for anything, and I was so 
nearly starved that I was almost willing to eat 
that fish raw.” 

After hearing this story, my grandfather had 
a long talk in private with Arthur. He finally 
succeeded in persuading the young man to allow 
him to write to Mr. Billings, for my grandfather 
was unwilling to take such a. step without his 
permission. In the mean time, Arthur was to 
remain with us until he could find something to 
do and he earnestly requested that he should be 
allowed to make himself useful in any possible 
way. 

“I don’t know what you can write, Mr. 
Boyce,” he said, “ except to tell my father that I 
am here, and that I have made a failure of every- 
thing that I have tried to do. Don’t tell him 
that I am sorry that I ran away, for I’m not. 
I’m only sorry that I haven’t made a success of 
it.” 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 55 

“ Arthur,” replied my grandfather seriously, 
’‘you forget the many years of love and kind- 
ness that you have known in your father’s home, 
you forget that he still loves you and must be 
mourning for you, perhaps as for one dead. You 
forget all this because he has thwarted and 
crossed you. You have disappointed him, too, 
my boy.” 

Arthur hung his head and was silent. 

“Now,” went on my grandfather, “your 
father has a right to know of your whereabouts. 
I shall make no appeal to him for money or 
assistance, since you do not wish me to do so. I 
shall simply state the facts and let your future 
course he decided between you. It may be bet- 
ter that you should not return to your home. 
Wait and see. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


In the days that followed, Arthur proved him- 
self a delightful companion. There was little 
that he could do to help about the farm, but he 
took charge of Kitty and me, greatly to my 
mother’s relief, for she was not now able to afford 
a nursemaid. She had suffered tortures of anx- 
iety whenever I was out of her sight. That was 
a great part of the time, for forest and field 
offered too many attractions for me to be willing 
to play about near the house. Arthur would 
often take both of us off to the woods — Kitty 
riding a part of the way on his shoulder, for her 
little feet soon tired. He built us a beautiful log 
fort, of the slender white beech logs which the 
country folk thereabout called “ popple.” We 
used to have glorious sham fights, thrilling 
escapes from the Indians, and I think that Arthur 
enjoyed them almost as much as we did. He 
was scalped so often by my dexterous tomahawk 
that grandpapa expressed great surprise that 
his hair remained so luxuriant. Nig took part 
sometimes, only he could never remember which 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 57 

side he was on and rushed about so indiscrimi- 
nately that he spoiled the effect. 

The creek and the lake into which it emptied, 
two miles distant from my grandfather’s house, 
was said to be bottomless. Probably they had 
not been very thoroughly sounded, but at any 
rate the bottom was known to be formed of quick- 
sand, and anything dropped into the clear water 
sank rapidly out of sight. This naturally added 
to the nervousness that my mother always felt 
when I started out to fish, but I enjoyed my free- 
dom so much that in spite of her terrors, she 
allowed me to go very often. With Arthur along 
she felt secure. I soon ceased to give him les- 
sons in fishing, he went so far ahead of his teacher. 
My grandfather had managed to find us some 
fish-hooks, and on some days we had great luck. 
We discovered that the stream contained black 
bass as well as the smaller fry of finny creation, and 
once, after an exciting fight, Arthur captured a 
three-pounder. They were shy, however, and 
our tackle was poor, so we did not often catch 
one. As we sat on the bridge, dangling our feet 
over the water, he used to tell me thrilling tales 
of the muscalonge fishing in Lake Erie, and of 
how he had once caught one which two men 
could scarcely carry. 

Luella could never become reconciled to 
Arthur*s presence. She called him “ that tramp’* 
and sniffed audibly whenever he spoke. On the 


58 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL, 

other hand, although he was always very polite 
to them, it was easy to see that Arthur was puz- 
zled by Luella’s and Jonas’ position in our house- 
hold. They were on a footing of equality, and 
often joined in the conversation. I explained to 
him that we hadn’t done that in Lep6re, but that 
grandpapa wouldn’t be able to keep help on any 
other terms. His face was comical in its as- 
tonishment, however, when one of the neighbors 
dropped in and invited the entire household, in- 
cluding Luella and Jonas, to a party at his home, 
and patronizingly adding that Arthur might 
“ come along,” too. 

Arthur “ went along.” I heard him tell grand- 
papa that he enjoyed it as a character study. If 
he hadn’t said that, I should have thought it was 
fun to him just as it was to the other young men, 
for he was a great success. The heiress of the 
neighborhood, a young woman whose father 
owned the largest farm thereabouts, took a fancy 
to him. She was very nice to him, so nice that 
one of the young farmers didn’t seem to like it. 

There was no dancing and no music. The 
company played games, some of which I was 
familiar with from playing them at children’s 
parties in Lep^re. It seemed very funny to me 
to see growing people romping through “Copen- 
hagen,” “ Needle’s Eye,” “ Clap in and Clap out,’ 
with kisses for forfeits. Arthur looked a little 
startled at first, but soon he w’as as lively as any 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. ' 59 

of them. When he ran through the “ Needle’s 
Eye,” Miss Elvira May Johnson, the heiress, 
chose him by dropping her hands down on his 
shoulders as he passed along. The young man 
behind him said that Arthur had trod upon his 
toe and although Arthur was very polite and 
sorry, the farmer wouldn’t play any more with 
Arthur in the game. He said that “ folks that 
didn’t know how to do correct had better keep 
out,” and was very sulky and discontented. I 
was quite surprised, for I thought that Arthur 
played just as well as anybody and he certainly 
was not at all a clumsy person. Kitty and I 
concluded that the farmer must be a very bad- 
tempered man indeed, and so he seemed the rest 
of the evening. 

That sad person, the minister, was present, but 
he didn’t appear at all gloomy. He ate seven 
pieces of pie — Kitty and I counted. When I told 
grandpapa, he laughed, and said we would 
probably all get sent below in the next Sunday’s 
sermon. Grandmamma said, “ William ! ” and 
shook her head at him. Grandmamma was 
always very sensitive about religious subjects and 
she never allowed any one in her presence to laugh 
about the minister. 

In a few days after this, Arthur left us. We 
had all grown to like him and were sorry to see 
him go. His father wrote for him to return to 
Northport, but said that he need not clerk in the 


6o THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


store any more. Mr. Billings thought that it 
would perhaps be better for him to stay for a while 
at his uncle’s and he said that if his heart was still 
set on becoming a lawyer, he might begin at once 
to read law. Arthur was very happy and very 
grateful to my grandfather. With good wishes 
from all of us, he bade us good-bye and w'ent on 
his way homeward. 

Kitty and I did not enjoy the fort any more. 
It made us lonely just to look at it, and she took 
the scalping so seriously that it was rather spoiled 
for me. It is disconcerting to a wild whooping 
Indian to have his victim begin to cry just as 
he takes a firm hold of the scalp lock, and to be 
constrained to stop and console the victim by 
assurances that it is only make-believe mars the 
effect seriously. What I particularly wanted to 
forget was the make-believe part of it, Kitty got 
along nicely with Luella — in fact everybody was 
fond of the sweet, gentle little creature whose 
soft eyes were so like my mother’s — and she 
rather preferred to hang about that haughty 
damsel. I should have liked occasionally to play 
by the kitchen door and make bread with a little 
piece of dough such as our cook in Lep^re used 
to let me have to play with. But Luella was firm. 
She said I needn’t come around “clutterin’ up 
the kitchen with messes.” And yet, hard-hearted 
Luella was perfectly willing to bake on a little 
tin the small loaf that Kitty’s dusty fingers had 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 6i 


kneaded until it was almost black. I couldn’t 
understand such distinctions. 

One day grandmother took pity on my loneli- 
ness and sent over and borrowed a neighbor’s 
little boy to spend the day with me. He could 
play Indian with most realistic effect, and I came 
weeping into the house with a cut in the side of 
my head, that had to be bound up by mamma with 
much arnica and many consoling kisses. She 
thought that we had better not play Indian any 
more. Charlie Gould was very sorry, and prom- 
ised to be careful in the future, but mamma took 
the tomahawk away. 

Then we played William Tell — my suggestion 
— for Charlie had never heard of that patriot. I 
was Tell, Jr. The first arrow took effect — not on 
the apple, but on the end of my nose, which bled 
profusely. Mamma held up her hands and said 
there wouldn’t be a drop of blood left in my body 
if that boy stayed all day. She wouldn’t let us go 
away from the house after that, so we played 
robbers in the attic, a most interesting place, as 
farm attics are apt to be. 

I was the victim, of course, and Charlie was 
the burglar. When he wanted to light matches 
and scorch my feet until I told where my gold 
was concealed, I rebelled, and my screams 
brought the household to my rescue. My mother 
flew at the burglar and shook him and told him 
that he was a “ little monster.” This seemed to 


62 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


surprise and grieve Charlie. He said that he 
never saw any one that got hurt as easy as I did, 
and that he would go home if “ folks didn’t stop 
finding fault so.” He promised however that 
he wouldn’t hurt me any more and even that he 
wouldn’t lay a finger on me. We went out of 
doors again and chased the chickens, pretending 
that they were whites and we were Indians, 
until Jonas interfered, just in time to save a 
venerable white hen from Charlie. 

Charlie had once witnessed a hanging and he 
told me all about it, with most blood-curdling 
details. We got so interested that he forgot his 
promise and wanted to play hanging, with him- 
self for the hangman and me for the condemned 
man. I reminded him, however, that he was not 
to risk my life again, so he thought that Kitty 
would do nicely for the victim, and I could be 
the clergyman. I wouldn’t consent to any tam- 
pering with Kitty, and we compromised on Nig. 

Nig seemed very much pleased with the 
arrangements for his execution. He wagged his 
tail and licked Charlie’s hand and altogether took 
a most friendly interest. When we pulled from 
under him my little toy wagon and left him swing- 
ing in the air, he gave one yelp and then sub- 
sided into silence and convulsive struggling. I 
thought it was becoming too serious and wanted 
to cut down my poor old playfellow before he 
really got hurt, Charlie drove me olf and only 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 63 

my cries for help, bringing my grandfathers 
prompt assistance, saved poor Nig — very much 
the worse for his experience. 

Charlie, his pockets filled with cookies by 
grandmamma’s generous hand, was escorted home 
by Jonas, after being invited warmly by the 
entire family not to come again. Neither Nig 
nor I were seriously injured, but the poor dog 
had been badly frightened and he eyed me re- 
proachfully, evidently putting some share of the 
blame on my shoulders. I had considerable 
difficulty in re-establishing our former friendly 
relations, although I repented most deeply my 
part in the hanging. 


CHAPTER IX. 


Shortly after Charlie Gould’s visit, we had 
three days of such heavy rains as to keep us al- 
most constantly in the house. Luella, autocrat 
of the kitchen, showed so much distaste for my 
society that I spent little of my time in her king- 
dom. As I recall it, it was a very attractive 
place. There was always a comfortable, sleek 
cat or two dozing near the big old-fashioned 
stove. On the well-scrubbed floor were bright 
mats ofgay-hued rag carpeting. The windows 
were filled with potted geraniums and on one 
side of the wall, hung a big square cage, inhab- 
ited by a family of canaries, A large cupboard 
with glass doors was filled with dishes and kitchen 
utensils, and there was besides a deep closet from 
which were wafted odors of spicy cakes, pickles 
and preserves, that made my mouth water as I 
passed by. In fact, I always passed by so slowly 
and with such covetous glances, that Luella af- 
fected to think that I would slyly help myself if 
she were to relax her watchfulness. 

My mother had in the days of old been a gay 
and interesting playfellow with her children, but 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 65 

she was now too serious and preoccupied to in- 
vent new games and to give fresh interpretations 
to oft-told tales. With the thoughtlessness of 
childhood, I forgot her cares, and wondered at 
the change. She must have pined sadly through 
that long summer, separated from my father, and 
with no cheering news from him to encourage 
the hope of our being once more a united family, 
but she hid her sadness from us and was only a 
little quieter and more serious than of yore. It 
was at that time that the first white threads began 
to show themselves on her beautiful head, destined 
to wear so prematurely a silver crown. She used 
to sit a great deal of the time beside one of the 
windows with a big work-basket at her side stitch- 
ing and darning patiently, for her active little 
ones kept her busy in repairing and replacing 
their garments. When we passed her window 
in our play, she always looked up with her old 
bright smile lightening the sadness that was 
becoming the habitual expression of her face. 
Sometimes we asked when papa was to be with 
us again. She always replied — “ Very soon, 
dear,” with a little involuntary sigh that con- 
tradicted her hopeful words. 

The attic became my play-room during the 
rainy weather and I soon found that its resources 
were well-nigh inexhaustible. The serpent in 
this paradise was the hornet. There was a whole 
family of them, in fact — busy, irritable, resentful 

5 


66 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


of my presence and ready to sting on the slightest 
provocation, real or fancied. There is no creat- 
ure in the world so prone to take offense unless 
it be a lobster, but one need never be overtaken 
by a bad-tempered lobster, while the hornet 
hangs around like the Irish gentleman inviting 
someone to tread on the tail of his coat. I was 
not acquainted with the habits of hornets when I 
made my first visit to the attic, and when one of 
the tribe began to buzz around and make slight- 
ing remarks about my appearance — his buzzing 
sounded like it anyway — I flapped my handker- 
chief at him and said, “ Shoo ! ” This was the 
insult that he had been longing for and waiting 
for and his vengeance was prompt. My wounds 
were plastered with wet red clay until I looked 
like a patient at the German mud-baths, and 
while this homely remedy was being applied I 
listened meekly to a long lecture on the habits of 
the fiendish insect and took large doses of good 
advice about keeping away from his haunts. So 
keen was the memory that, for a time, I left the 
attic entirely to the hornets, but one stormy day, 
when there was nothing else to do, I crept cau- 
tiously back again. I behaved with so much 
decorum this time, that beyond making a few 
threatening remarks and darting wildly about, 
probably to further terrorize me, the hornets left 
me in peace. And I forgot them as I forgot every- 
thing else, in my first plunge into literature^ 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 67 

There were barrels full of literature in that de- 
lightful attic. I don’t know why it had seemed 
worth while to preserve such things as three 
barrels of the “ Beverly Repository of Art and 
Literature,” but it had been preserved, and, for 
the first time in my life, I dipped into the sweets 
of romance. Fortunately for me, I fell upon 
something far more wholesome. I discovered a 
battered, paper covered copy of “Oliver Twist,” 
which I read and re-read in the solitude of the 
attic. I had found pleasure before only in out- 
of-door, active games and sports. Here was a 
spring of pure delight from which I drank greed- 
ily, ever thirsting for more. 

Besides the books there were many other inter- 
esting things in the attic. My grandmother’s 
great spinning-wheel stood there — sometimes 
turning slowly as if touched by ghostly fingers, 
when the light breeze blew in from an open win- 
dow.' ‘It was not one of the small wheels such 
as were used for spinning flax, but a large one, 
quite plain and unpicturesque, and in working k 
the spinner was obliged to walk to and fro. 
Many a stout pair of mittens have I worn, knit 
by my grandmother’s busy fingers from yarn that 
she herself had spun. Then there was my grand- 
father’s old trunk, the same that he carried with 
him when my grandparents went on their wed- 
ding journey in a canal packet boat, forty years 
before, It was covered with cow-hide with the 


68 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


hair left on, and studded with bright brass-headed 
nails. Inside of it, carefully guarded and pre- 
served from moths, were grandpapa’s wedding 
clothes — a bottle green coat with a high rolling 
collar, decked with gold buttons, a flowered vel- 
vet waistcoat and a pair of light trousers. Other 
garments, antiquated in style, but less valued for 
their associations, hung from the rafters. When 
it began to grow dusk, they looked fearfully like 
limp bodies hanging there. There was one 
sturdy, dingy suit of old clothes that I always 
fancied was the body of Bill Sykes hanging with 
his neck broken from the chimney of the house 
where he had taken refuge. 

There were ears of corn, little dainty ears for 
popping — some of them — of rich golden hue, and 
scarlet dried peppers, making bright spots of color 
against the dull umber of the rafters. Deep 
orange crook-necked squashes and pale yellow 
gourds hung beside each other, brown dried 
apples and reddish-purple onions. 


CHAPTER X. 


Summer was drawing to its close. The yel- 
low fields were nothing but stubble, and the carts 
came to the barns laden with spoils of the har- 
vest. We were soon to leave the dear old farm, 
to me a place of pleasures ever varying. My 
father was not yet settled ; he had gone back to 
Northport, after eight years of absence, and was 
trying to find some business there. But to 
Northport from Milford was a long journey, and 
he did not think it best for us to join him until 
he was certain of remaining in the East. My 
mother wished to put me in school. After run- 
ning wild so long I was growing unmanageable, 
and she thought I needed some restraint. So 
we were to go, the first week in September, to 
my cousin’s, in Milwaukee, where we were to 
wait for my father either to send for us or to 
return to us. 

We heard occasionally from Arthur Billings. 
He was still with his uncle, he wrote, and was 
very contented and happy. He was reading 
law and keeping on with his classical studies, 
too. He sent us a box of new books and maga- 


70 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

zines, and to me especially a long, mysterious- 
looking parcel, which turned out to contain a 
fine bass-rod with a reel, a dip-net, and an 
assortment of hooks. I was wild over my new 
acquisition. The creek had been a good enough 
fishing-ground when I had only a birch rod and 
a bent pin. I now became aspiring and 
longed to try the lake ; besides, grandpapa had 
been promising all summer to take me there, 
and the next week we were going away. 

We started early one morning, with our boat 
behind us on the wagon, and in it our fishing, 
tackle and the luncheon that Luella had grudg- 
ingly prepared for us (Luella hated fishing, for 
she didn’t like to clean the fish for cooking, and 
I think that in her heart she wished us bad luck). 
Jonas was to drive and to row the boat ; grand- 
papa and I were to do the fishing. Nig went 
along, too. He was not invited, in fact, he was 
driven back several times, but he insisted on 
going, evidently thinking that this was an oppor- 
tunity for great sport. After his usual fashion, 
he made little side trips into the w^oods as we 
went along. Dear grandpapa was so jolly that 
day ! He sang, as we drove along, in what 
seemed to me quite the finest tenor that I had 
ever heard. These were my last days with him. 
Happily, I did not know it. I thought that the 
future had in store for me many other summers 
just as bright. But never again was I to see the 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


71 


old farm — never again to know the companion- 
ship of my dear grandfather, who had been such 
a merry playfellow, such an example- of every- 
thing that is best and most lovable in human 
nature. 

When the boat was put in the water, it was 
found to still leak a little, although put to soak 
the day before ; nevertheless, it had been so long 
unused that it was not water-tight. It wasn’t 
a Rushton, but a very old tub of a boat, 
scow-built, with broad, flat bottom. Indeed, I 
think it was my grandfather’s own make — -he 
was quite handy at carpentering. The oars 
were fastened on pins, without any regard to the 
rower’s reach or the length of his legs. I doubt, 
though, if Jonas would have been a fine oars- 
man under the most favorable conditions. He 
started off brilliantly by sawing the air with 
both oars and keeling over backwards, his huge 
feet flourishing wildly as he struck on his head 
in the bottom of the boat. We had great diffi- 
culty in righting him again and soothing his 
wounded feelings. ” Doggon the thing ! ” he 
exclaimed, rubbing a lump on the back of .his 
head. “ It’s ez hard to get holt on ez a greased 
pig.” Jonas was not very quick to learn, and he 
repeated the same performance at intervals all 
day. He said that he was “ that bunged up t’ud 
take a month o’ Sundays to git over it. Seems 
’s if folks took the hardest ways t’ hev fu7t, when 


72 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

all they hev to do is t’ set around comfortable t’ 
hum," 

“ Never mind, Jonas,” replied grandpapa, 
“ We have to work hard lor everything in this 
world that’s worth while — even to have a good 
time.” 

“ Wal, ther’s no accountin’ fer tastes, ez th’ 
ole lady sed when she kissed th’ cow. I’d a 
blame sight ruther set aroun’ t’ hum an’ smoke, 
ef I had a day t’ waste, ’n I guess the fish ’d 
ruther I would, too," Ihis last remark -was 
called forth by the flapping of a solitary sunfish 
in the bottom of the boat. 

“ Well, if you don’t stop thumping the boat 
and splashing about as you’ve been doing ever 
since we started out, there won’t be a fish in the 
lake fool enough to look at a bait,” said grand- 
papa, with some asperity. 

“ Oh, grandpapa, I’ve got something ! ” I 
fairly shrieked, as my reel whirred around and 
the line began to pay out. I hung to the rod 
with both hands, and grandpapa stopped the 
reel. 

" Strike him, now — quick ! ” he exclaimed ex- 
citedly. 

I gave the rod a sharp jerk. It bent almost 
double when the line stopped running out, and I 
could scarcely hold it up. “ It isn’t anything,” 
I said dejectedly. “ It’s just the bottom of the 
lake that I’ve got caught in.” 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


73 


“ Pretty lively for the bottom of the lake,” re- 
plied grandpapa significantly, as a sharp splash 
about five yards away and a sudden jerk told us 
that the game was hooked. “Get the dip net 
ready there, Jonas — I don’t dare let go.” 

But our fish was not yet ready to submit 
to his fate. As we drew him gently towards 
the boat he took another sharp tlirn and 
threw himself quite out of the water, a boat- 
length away from where we had first seen him. 
With one hand my grandfather continued stead- 
ily to wind in the line, with the other he kept 
hold of the butt of the rod, for there was 
danger of its being jerked from my grasp. By 
this time the big fellow seemed pretty well tired 
out, and submitted tamely enough to be drawn 
into the side of the boat. We had a good look at 
him as grandpapa slid the net under his body, 
and he appeared to be fully two feet long. The 
sight of his captors spurred him on to make a 
last break for liberty, and with incredible swift- 
ness he darted off before the net encircled him. 
The released reel fairly hummed. We had all 
our work to do over, and it was a good 
five minutes more before we had him fast in the 
net. He was a beauty — a black bass, as a more 
expert fisherman would have known at the first 
dash — and he weighed a full seven pounds — not 
an ounce less. He was probably the patriarch 
of the lake, for, although we had a fine catch — 


74 the memoirs of a little girl. 

thirty odd fish of various kinds — we caught noth- 
ing else that nearly approached him in size. 
My grandfather brought in a four-pounder, 
which gave him a very pretty fight, but he 
looked very small beside my monster. After 
this, even Jonas took an interest, and stopped 
grumbling at the waste of a good working day 
“ a-foolin’ aroun’ th’ lake, ketchin’ enough fish 
t’ run a ho-tel.” 

When we went ashore in the middle of the day 
to lunch and to rest a little, we found Nig wait- 
ing for us, and -he claimed his share of the food 
— rather more than . his share, Jonas thought. 
“ Dern yer skin! Ye wan’t invited ez I know 
of,” he said. Nig wasn’t sensitive, however, and 
he hung about till the last crumb disappeared. 
I stretched my cramped legs by engaging in a 
wild romp with him while grandpapa took his 
usual noonday “ forty winks.” 

Late in the afternoon, when we came ashore 
again to start for home. Nig had disappeared, 
feeling that there was no more refreshment to be 
had, he tired of waiting for us and went home 
alone. When we arrived, Luella reproached us 
for our selfishness. “ You might ’a spared the 
poor dog a scrap ’r two, I sh’d think," she 
remarked indignantly. “ Take him along ’n 
then let him starve. He come home pretty 
nigh dead, ’n I’ve been a-feedin‘ him ever 
since.” 


THE MEMOIRS OF 'A LITTLE GIRL. 


75 

“Sho! the critter’s got the laugh on you'' 
said Jonas. “ He et s’ much I thought he’d 
bust, ’n then t’ come back ’n purtend he hedn’t 
bed a bite — haw-haw ! Wal, he’s got full fer 
once in his life, I guess.” Nig, stretched out 
stiffly by the stov'e, quite unable to move from 
over-feeding, opened one eye and looked at Jonas 
with a knowing sort of wink. Luella was loth to 
admit that she had been taken in, and she 
affected to doubt that we had shared fairly with 
the dog. Even the languid interest he took in 
our supper failed to convince her of the trick he 
had played. The cats had a great feast on raw 
fish-heads. They were almost unapproachable 
for several days thereafter, so thoroughly had they 
appreciated and made the most of these odorous 
dainties — an unusual treat for them. Luella 
said : “ Every last thing on the ’ farm smells 
o fish. I jes’ wish they could be lef’ where they 
b’long — in the water. ’Taint right fer decent 
folks t’ eat things ’at smells so.” 

I recalled to Luella her own fondness for 
onions, but she had an answer to that — Luella al- 
ways had an answer. She said that “ onions 
wuz good fer th’ blood,” thereby conveying the 
impression that she only ate them out of regard 
for her health. The domestic tyrant relaxed her 
severity a little when she saw our trunks were 
being packed, and she gave me to understand 
that it was only as a matter of principle that she 


76 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

had been so severe with me all summer. “ The 
kitchen’s no place fer children t’ mess around 
in,” she said. 

“Well, you always let Kitty make pies and 
help, and watch you when you fried doughnuts,” 
— this was my last great grievance, for at home 
I made it a point to be on hand when dough- 
nuts were being made. 

“ Well,” sniffed Luella, “ ’f you think you’re 
like Kitty, and are goin’ to be treated like Kitty, 
I can jes’ tell you you’re left. Kitty’s nothin’ but 
a sweet baby. It’s different havin’ her aroun’ 
f’m havin’ a great, overgrown, rampin’, tearin’ 
tomboy a-clutterin’ up the place.” 

Perhaps after this formidable description of 
me, the reader may be interested to know that I 
was then rather a demure little girl of nine, quite 
small for my age, with rosy cheeks, a freckled 
little nose, and large, near-sighted gray eyes. 
Tomboy I am afraid I was. I liked to fish, to 
climb trees, to fight Indians better than to dress a 
doll or to “ play house,” like other little girls. 
My doll family had never been taken out of my 
trunk since we had been at grandpapa’s. There 
were so many better things to do, I thought, on 
pleasant days, and lately I had begun to realize 
that books were the best pastime for stormy 
weather, and the best friends and companions 
for all weather and all ages — never failing, never 
disappointing those who learn to love them. 


TNE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 77 

They who appreciate them early in life have 
reason to congratulate themselves that with 
these friends they may find a never-failing 
refuge. 


CHAPTER XI. 


After the country quiet to which we had be- 
come accustomed, Milwaukee seemed a bewilder- 
ingly large and noisy place. I felt the shyness 
and shrinking of a little country girl before the 
ease, the assurance, the fashionable clothes of my 
cousin’s young daughters, one of whom was just 
my age. Alice was years older in manners and 
worldly wisdom, but she was years younger in. 
other things. I ceased to wonder and began to 
patronize a little when I found that she did not 
know who Dickens was. She had never read 
“Oliver Twist,” and even when I told her all 
about it she didn’t seem impressed. She con- 
fessed that she didn’t like very well to read, and 
turned the tables on me by remarking that what 
she really enjoyed was her dancing-school (I had 
never seen the inside of one) and her German 
lessons. She already spoke German quite 
fluently, and she negligently informed me that 
she was to begin French during the coming 
year. I keenly felt my ignorance and my 
country breeding, and resolved that I too would 
study German and French. I had not been 
nidch of a, student in the little school at Lep^re, 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


79 


but now I determined that I would be more in- 
dustrious, and I could scarcely wait for the 
opening of the schools to show my zeal for learn- 
ing. My cousins lived in a fashionable quarter 
of the city, not far from the lake front, and the 
children attended the public school of that dis- 
trict. As it was situated in a rich neighbor- 
hood, the class of children attending it was ex- 
ceptionally good. 

Being of the same age as Alice, I had expected 
to enter her class and was deeply mortified that 
I was, after careful examination, put in the next 
division below. The superintendent found my 
acquirements decidedly unequal, and in accord- 
ance with the merciless public school system, 
I was graded according to the study in which I 
was the least proficient. I could read anything, 
spell almost any word, but could scarcely write 
my own name, and knew nothing of arithmetic 
beyond addition and substraction. While I 
spoke fairly good English, I knew not a single 
rule of grammar. In my reading I had picked 
up a considerable knowledge of history, especially 
of English history, and I knew something of geog- 
raphy from the long imaginary journeys I had 
followed out on the maps. The very foundation 
of this whole school system was mathematics, 
and all that I knew served me to no purpose, 
since I was so lamentably deficient in this respect. 
The touchstone of a pupil’s mental acejuirement 


8o THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


in Lep^re was his ability to spell anything, and 
the great part of my time in Miss Briggs’ school 
had been spent in spelling matches — contests in 
which I usually came off victorious. It was fun, 
but it wasn’t very practical, as I now began to 
realize. Although I had little taste for it, I bent 
all my energies to getting on in arithmetic, since 
that was the only way in which I could get on 
In anything else. I had no time for German, 
which was taught in the free schools, and my 
mother could not afford to send me to dancing- 
school. I went sometimes with Alice to look 
on, however. , 

Alice and Estelle, her older sister, were grace- 
ful little dancers and society women in miniature 
already. Alice’s crimpy golden locks covered a 
pretty head stuffed full of the most extraordinary 
ideas of life. Her coquettish and grown-up ways 
with the little boys at the dancing-class, her sage 
reflections about those who were or who were 
not “ in our set ” filled me with astonishment. 
There was one boy whom I thought very nice. 
He went to our school and he was also a member 
of my cousin’s dancing-class. Alice would not 
accept him for a partner, although he was a very 
good dancer. “ His mother keeps a boarding- 
house,” she whispered to me in explanation. 

“ But he is just as nice as the other boys,” 
I answered stoutly. “ I think that he’s ever and 
ever so mu^h politer than Eddie Potter. Eddiq 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 8 1 


just slams around and steps on people’s toes and 
never says, ' Excuse me,’ or, ‘ Did I hurt you ? ’ 
or anything.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Potter is awfully rich and Eddie has 
a pony and cart, so he just thinks he can do any- 
thing he pleases. His mother gives lovely parties 
for him. Tom Hurd’s mother never gives partie's, 
so he has to be politer than Eddie, or nobody 
would like him.” 

“ Well, anyway, I don’t like Eddie. He called 
me ‘ speckle face ’ the other day, and made fun 
of my grandfather being a farmer.” 

“ Did you go and tell that ? Well, I just 
think you’re too mean for anything,” exclaimed 
Alice indignantly. “ Mamma never tells that 
Uncle William lives on a farm. Farmers are 
always poor and they talk so funny and wear 
such queer clothes. I’ll be sorry you ever came 
here if you don’t stop telling things and acting 
so different from other girls.” 

“ III be sorry, too. I’ll be sorry I ever saw 
you if you say anything against grandpa. Any~ 
body ’d be proud to have him for their grand- 
father ” — the rising tears choked my voice. I 
turned my head away to hide them. Was the 
great world like this — I began to wonder — only 
caring for those who were rich and fashionable ? 
If it were, I was sure that I would rather go back 
to the farm or to Lep^re. Alice’s dainty beauty 
— so attractive at first — became almost obnoxious 
6 


82 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


to me. I thought that being heartless was per- 
haps worse than being freckled, and I longed to 
lean my head on my mother’s sympathetic breast 
and to tell her of my doubts and my bewilder- 
ment. I didn’t like to tell her though what Alice 
had said about grandpapa, for fear of hurting her 
feelings, and so, for the first time in my life, I 
cherished a secret trouble. 

Those were Dolly Varden, Grecian-Bend days 
— the latter days of the Second French Empire, 
when fashions were extravagant and reckless, as 
befitted the end of such a reign — and I was a 
little country mouse who had come to visit my 
cousins, the town mice. Like the country mouse 
in the fable I wanted to be back again in the 
freedom of the fields. I wasn’t happy and I felt 
out of my element. Of what use, I argued, to 
try to learn, if people laughed at learning ? 
And all the sweet, old-fashioned lessons that my 
mother had taught me seemed out of place here. 

Before long Kitty and I were invited with our 
cousins to a children’s party. Estelle and Alice, 
in new pink silk frocks, much be-flounced, with 
'very crimpy hair and gold chains with big lockets, 
their hands covered with white kid gloves, were 
so elegant that a lump began to come in my 
throat when I thought how strong a contrast my 
sister and I must make to them. We wore very 
simple but dainty little white nainsook frocks, 
and had each a necklace of coral beads, which 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 83 

had always seemed fine enough before, but which 
now shrunk into insignificance in comparison 
to those beautiful lockets and chains. Neither of 
us had any gloves — we had never worn gloves at 
the parties in Lepere — and my hands looked very 
brown against my white dress. Alice good- 
naturedly offered me a pair that she had only 
worn once, but my mother thanked her quietly 
and refused them. She did not think them 
necessary or she would have got me some, she 
said. I looked at her appealingly, but she shook 
her head. I am sure that although it would have 
hurt her pride a little to do it, lor she was very 
sensitive, she would have let me take the gloves, 
had she realized what an affliction my bare brown 
hands were to me. They seemed to stand out 
with startling conspicuousness. I could not hide 
them, although I tried all the evening to keep 
them as much out of sight as possible. And then, 
worst of all, I did not know how to dance. We 
had used to play at our little parties at home 
games of forfeits, “ Needle’s Eye,” “ London 
Bridge” and “ Going to Jerusalem,” but these 
young people did not seem to care for anything 
so childish. I managed to get through a qua- 
drille and a lancers well enough, for I had watched 
them so often at my cousins’ dancing-class, but 
I could not waltz or polka. It was very mortify- 
ing to me to have to say that I didn’t know how, 
and 1 felt, with childish exaggeration, that I was 


84 the memoirs of a little girl . 


quite disgraced. When we reached home, my 
pent-up feelings gave way and I put my head 
down on my mother’s shoulder and cried. “ I’m 
so tired, mamma,” I faltered in excuse. “ My 
new shoes hurt me and I’m very tired.” 

But little Kitty, with solemn, sleepy eyes fixed 
on mamma’s face, murmured with absolute con- 
viction, “It was bootiful, mamma, an’ I had two 
saucers of ice-cream — pink an’ white an’ green 
— an’ a nice lady held me in her lap an’ I watched 
the chilluns dance ” — her drowsy eyes drooped 
and Kitty was fast asleep. 

“ Don’t you think, dear,” said my mother 
gently, “ that our little Kitty has a happy way of 
seeing the brightest side of everything ? ” 


CHAPTER XII. 


Alice and I were walking home from school, 
kicking our way through the dried leaves (we 
liked to hear them rustle and crunch under our 
feet) when we saw Eddie Potter in his pony cart 
driving very fast down the street. He pulled up 
suddenly as he neared us and shouted, “ Say, 
girls, Chicago’s all burning up. Don’t you want 
to get in and drive down to the lake ? You can 
see the smoke — come on.” 

We were a little skeptical about Eddie’s piece 
of news, but we thought that a drive on the 
beach in his cart was not to be despised, even if 
there was nothing to be seen when we got there ; 
so we clambered in, forgetting that we had been 
told to come straight home from school. We 
used to forget that injunction rather often, I am 
afraid. Eddie drove very rapidly and the cart 
bounced and jolted us about so that we didn’t 
talk much on the way but devoted our whole 
attention to hanging on to our hats and keeping 
from being pitched out. 

A great many people had gone to the lake al- 
ready, and were walking up and down the sand 
or standing in little groups discussing the prob- 


86 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


able fate of the burning city. To the south of us 
in the distance hung a great smoke cloud, black 
and ominous. There had been a great many 
forest fires in the northern part of the state that 
autumn, and several towns had been entirely de- 
stroyed. People were very nervous. I heard one 
man on the beach say to another, “ If the wind 
was just right we’d get sparks from there and 
everything here is as dry as a bone.” 

“ Well,” replied his companion, “ might as well 
come first as last. It’s the end of the world — 
that’s what it is— only it’s starting in spots in- 
stead of catching afire all at once.” 

His hearers laughed, but he, undisturbed from 
his conviction, gloomily shook his head and 
walked away alone. Eddie Potter began to sing 
“ When Gabriel blows his trumpet.” 

“Sh! Eddie Potter, you’re just awful !” ex- 
claimed Alice severely. “ S’posen’ it was the end 
of the world — wouldn’t you just catch it for 
making fun ! ” 

Eddie was not easily silenced, and he continued 
to sing. The cold chills began to chase each 
other down my back. I wished that we hadn’t 
come. I remembered hearing a rough man say 
that he “ wouldn’t be found dead,” in company 
with some one he mentioned. I wished that we 
had chosen a less irreverent person to be found 
dead with, if this was really to be the end. I hadn’t 
said my prayers that morning either, for we had 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL, 87 

been late in awakening. I wondered if it would 
do to say them now to myself, standing up in the 
pony-cart, but mamma had always frowned on 
any such expedients as that ; when we wanted to 
save time by praying while we were dressing, she 
had explicitly stated that one must kneel to pray. 
Another thought struck me — we were disobeying 
our mothers in being here at all. I sat down 
suddenly, for Eddie had started the pony gallop- 
ing down the beach. 

“ Let’s go home, Allie,” I said, coaxingly. 
“Your mother’ll be awfully cross.” 

“ She won’t know,” replied Alice calmly. 
“ She’s gone to a guild meeting, and they always 
stay and talk and have tea and cake afterwards. 
She won’t be home till supper time. Aunt Lou 
went with her, so we can stay just as long as we 
like.” 

“ I’ll have to tell though,” I said despairingly. 
“ Mamma asks me every day where I’ve been, and 
I couldn’t tell her a story.” 

“Who wants you to tell a story, goosie ?” 
asked Alice impatiently. “ You can tell every- 
thing else and Just leave out this part — oh, Eddie, 
do 7 t't drive so fast. You’ll run over some one.” 

Alice’s sentence was never finished. One of 
our wheels struck some obstacle half buried in 
the sand — the pony swerved sharply to one side. 
To my bewildered gaze, there was a brief glimpse 
of my two companions flying out into the air. 


88 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


A thunderbolt seemed to fall on my head and I 
thought of the end of the world, as red rockets 
and stars danced before my eyes- — then a rush- 
ing, roaring sound as of a great wind among 
forest trees and all was dark. 

“ Oh, how my head aches ! I just can’t open my 
eyes if it is time to get up,” I thought, turning un- 
easily and screwing my eyes tighter shut. The 
bed seemed unusually hard and I wished that I 
had remembered to pull down my window shade 
the night before, so that the sun wouldn’t glare in 
my face like that. I opened one eye Just a little 
and shut it again, dazzled by a flood of crimson 
light from the setting sun, which was shining up- 
on me across the blue waters of the lake. How 
did I get there by the lake, and how did it come 
to be afternoon, I wondered ? 

“ She’s all right now,” I heard a cheery voice 
say. “No bones broken.” 

I remembered it all in a flash and sat up on the 
sand, holding my dizzy, aching head, and looking 
about me. There was a crowd of people gathered 
around, and some one had righted the cart and 
was holding the pony’s bridle. That culprit steed 
stood placidly still, with the air of one who is con- 
scious that he has done his whole duty. Eddie 
was perched on the seat, looking a trifle pale and 
arguing with a big policeman who did not seem 
to want him to drive home by himself. I looked 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 89 

for Alice and could not find her at first. Then I 
saw that she was with some lady who was re- 
arranging her dress and putting on her hat. She 
did not seem much hurt, but she was crying a 
little, and when I came towards her she said, 
“ Let’s walk home, Bess. I don’t feel like driving 
any more, do you ? ” 

“ Not with boys," I answered decidedly. “ If I 
ever go riding again it’ll be with some one grown 
up.” 

Eddie seemed to have forgotten all about us 
anyway. He was driving slowly away — the 
policeman walking beside his cart and apparently 
still lecturing him on his recklessness. 

“ Are you sure that you feel able to get home 
alone ? ” asked the strange lady, smiling down 
at us. 

I felt very dizzy and shaken and my head 
ached badly, but I protested that I was quite well 
enough to walk. Alice was anxious to reach 
home before our mothers returned and so we set 
out, leaving the scene of our accident, with 
scarce a thought for the great conflagration that 
had drawn us thither. 

“ That’s what we get for disobeying, Allie,” 
I remarked gloomily, rubbing my fingers over 
the great lump on my forehead. 

“ Oh, pshaw ! I’ve done it lots of times and 
nothing’s ever happened before. I wouldn’t 
have to tell mamma now, if my sleeve wasn't 


90 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


torn. If we could get back in time to change 
our dresses before they come in from the guild 
meeting, we wouldn’t have to tell for ever so 
long. My elbow is awfully scraped, but mamma 
wouldn’t notice that.” 

“ Well, I guess my mother’ll notice the lump 
on my head the minute she sees me.” 

“Yes, that’s just like you to go and get hurt 
right where it’ll show and every one will know 
what you’ve been doing. I never can have any 
fun with you, your mother always finds out. 
You always go and tell, or else you do something 
stupid like this.” 

Overwhelmed by the injustice of this view of 
my misfortune, I could urge no excuse except 
that the time had been too limited for me to be 
able to arrange to strike on some inconspicuous 
portion of my anatomy. But Alice refused to be 
mollified. I began to suspect that she was rather 
glad to have some one to blame. Eddie Potter 
having escaped, I was being made to bear his 
share of the responsibility. I have since learned, 
both by experience and observation, that Alice 
was only acting out a very common trait of human 
nature. The world demands a scapegoat, and 
the frank, the fearless, the outspoken are always 
the ones to suffer, though perhaps less guilty 
than those who mask their failings under a veil 
of hypocrisy. 

We were punished for our disobedience by 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 91 

being sent to bed directly after supper. All the 
others were going down to the lake to see the 
lurid light of the great fire, so many miles 
distant. I could hear them getting ready to 
start — even little Kitty was going — and I bitterly 
regretted having lost my chance by my escapade 
that afternoon. When I heard the front door 
shut and the house relapsed into deathlike still- 
ness, a hopelessly forlorn feeling stole over me. 
I drew the bedclothes over my head and began 
to cry. I couldn’t help thinking about the end 
of the world. Supposing it should come now 
and find me alone, without my mother’s hand to 
cling to ? 


CHAPTER XIII. 


I HAD not lain thus very long before I felt 
something tugging gently at the bedclothes. On 
uncovering my head, I found Alice standing be- 
side me, looking particularly angelic in her long 
white nightrobe with her golden hair floating 
loosely about her shoulders. “ Sh ! ” she warned, 
before I could speak. “ Have they gone yet ? ” 
Her room was situated so that in it she could 
not hear the front door open and shut. 

“ Yes, long ago. Don’t you just wish we had 
behaved ourselves this afternoon ? ” I sighed. 

“ Humph ! ” sniffed Alice, turning up the gas 
very high, and curling herself up on the foot of 
my bed. “ We’ll have some fun in spite of them 
and we saw the fire first, anyway.” My cousin’s 
mood was evidently not penitential. 

“ Mamma said I was to go to sleep,” I haz- 
arded, making a last struggle for the right path. 

“ Well, so did mine, but I couldn’t get to sleep 
as early as this and I’m hungry. I’ll just bet 
that Mary and the cook’ll sneak out and go down 
to the lake just as soon as they think the family 
are out of sight. Let’s go down to the kitchen 
and get something to eat.” 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


93 


I was hungry too, and I received my cousin’s 
proposal with enthusiasm. We did not stop to 
dress, but stole softly down the back stairs in 
our bare feet. Sure enough, the kitchen was 
silent and empty. We were the only persons 
left in the big house. 

" It’s just the meanest thing I ever heard of to 
leave two little girls all alone at night,” pouted 
Alice. “I’ve a good mind to eat up every crumb 
of the cake.” 

“ It would serve ’em right,” I assented warmly. 
“ But do you know where it is ? ” 

Alice gave me an expressive look. “ Well, I 
rather think I’ve been there before.” She went 
to a cupboard in the dining-room, and with my 
help, dragged a big tin-box out. “ We’d better 
take it out in the kitchen, ’cause if our mothers 
should come home, we could just leave it and 
run quick up the back stairs before they got up 
there.” 

“ Would you dare leave it ? ” I asked, trem- 
bling with apprehension. This was shocking con- 
duct for the Day of Judgment, but I had become 
reckless. I felt that there was no salvation for 
me. “ Cook and Mary darsu't tell,” replied 
Alice triumphantly. 

It was a well-pknished cake-box, and we 
hacked and carved recklessly at two majestic 
cakes, without being quite able to make up our 
minds which we liked best. Sometimes we 


94 memoirs of a little girl . 

thought that the chocolate cake bore ofif the palm 
for excellence, and then to be absolutely certain 
we would try another piece of walnut cake, 
which would further warp our judgment and 
necessitate another trial of the chocolate. 

At last, when we had reduced the contents of 
the box to a few fragments, a happy thought 
struck Alice. “ Let’s make molasses candy,” 
she said. I was willing. I had forgotten the 
inevitable hour when our crimes must be brought 
to light and revelled in the delight of the present. 
We found the molasses jug, turned on all the 
dampers in the range, and soon had the largest 
saucepan full of amber molasses bubbling gayly 
and sending out savory odors. We opened the 
ice-chest, forgetting, of course, to close it again, 
and, after dripping the molasses on a big cake of 
ice that we succeeded in dragging out, found 
that the auspicious moment had arrived. As 
soon as the hot liquid had cooled a little, the 
candy would be ready to pull. We didn’t stop 
to put it in another receptacle, we were so eager 
for the fun. We just set the saucepan on the 
cake of ice and sopped up with dish-towels the 
resulting streams of water. We buttered our 
fingers liberally and got ready a pan of flour, too, 
in case the candy should stick in spite of our 
precautions. Just then a slight noise in the 
direction of the ice-chest made me look around 
in time to catch a glimpse of a huge cat disap- 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 95 

pearing through the open window dragging with 
him a turkey provided for the next day’s dinner. 
I started in pursuit, Alice after me. But in her 
haste she knocked the saucepan off from its 
perch on the cake of ice and when I returned 
from an ineffectual chase, she was wallowing 
helplessly in a pool of half-cooled molasses. It 
was too funny, and I sat down convulsed with 
laughter. We had forgotten the flight of time, 
however, and, to my horror, I heard the voices 
of our returning family in the front of the house. 
I pulled Alice up and we made a wild bolt for 
the back stairs. We parted without ceremony 
at the top, and each dived into her own room 
and bed as noiselessly as possible. I lay there 
shuddering to think of the ruin and chaos in that 
kitchen and of Alice’s plight. My feet were 
covered with molasses and the bedclothes stuck 
fast to them, but otherwise I had escaped pretty 
well. 

When my mother came up to put Kitty to bed, 
I pretended to be asleep. I could not face her 
yet. Kitty’s legs were not long enough to reach 
down to the molasses and I had a faint hope that 
I might wash it from the sheets in the morning 
before it should be noticed. Mamma softly kissed 
my forehead and turned out the light. I couldn’t 
sleep, though, and 1 lay there for hours staring 
into the darkness, a victim to the pangs of re- 
morse and of indigestion. At length, as I was 


96 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL, 

dozing off, a hand clutched me and a shrill and 
angry voice whispered in my ear, “ What ’d ye 
do with that torkey, ye little imp, answer me thot, 
will ye ? ” 

I sat up, for here was my Nemesis — first install- 
ment — in the shape of the irate cook. “ I didn’t 
take it, the cat stole it,” I faltered, genuinely 
frightened. 

“ That’s a Joikely story, ye imp of darkness ! 
Ye cudn’t be satisfied without doin’ something 
thot Mrs. Clifton ’ud be sure to foind out, cudn’t 
ye ? What’ll I till her, I’d loike to know ? There’s 
the range fire all burnt out ’n the oice milted ’n 
molasses all over my clane flure. I cud fix it up 
’n sind out airly fer sum oice, but how’ll I git a 
torkey ? ” 

“ Oh, Bridget, I’m truly sorry. We didn’t 
mean to. It was an accident. Couldn’t you tell 
how you left the ice-box door open and the cat 
took it ? ” I was sinking into hopeless depths of 
duplicity. 

“ I’ll have to,” said Bridget with a deep sigh. 
“ I’d loike to shake the dayloights out o’ ye young- 
ones, though,” she added vengefully. “ If ye iver 
till. I’ll kill ye — thot I will.” She retreated slowly, 
vowing vengeance and muttering to herself as 
she heavily creaked on tiptoe from the room. 

What a tangled web we had woven and how 
little it availed us ! Alice was fairly encrusted 
with molasses and the sheets of her bed had to 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 97 

be torn from her with some violence. We had 
both marked our pathway from the kitchen to our 
rooms with tracks of molasses (we hadn’t thought 
of that), and the whole story of our misdoings 
came out by piecemeal. After that mamma was 
anxious to leave Milwaukee, thinking that Alice 
was a very bad example for me, and Auntie Clif- 
ton being just as firmly persuaded that my influ- 
ence over my cousin was most pernicious, was, I 
fancy, not sorry that her guests were soon to 
depart. For; two days later, the great Chicago 
fire was over. My father having sent for us to 
join him in Northport, we were to go thither at 
once, only stopping a day -or two in Chicago to 
see my brother, and to have a 'glimpse of the 
ruin and devastation that the fire had brought on 
the once prosperous city. 

7 


CHAPTER XIV. 


The two days that followed our escapade were 
days of such grave anxiety and foreboding that 
our naughtiness was quickly forgotten. The 
burning city so near us was by day a threatening 
black bank of smoke, by night a -torch in the 
southern sky. Sometimes sparks or bits of burn- 
ing materials were blown as far as Milwaukee, 
and the inhabitants became very nervous and 
apprehensive lest that city should share the 
fate of Chicago. It was impossible to get definite 
news, and there was talk of missing people who 
were supposed to have perished in the flames. 
To those who, like us, had anyone near and dear 
in that fiery furnace, the days were full of horror 
and dread. We could not know, and it did not 
seem possible that there should not be great loss 
oHife. 

It was about this time that my father sent for 
us to join him in Northport, and the day after the 
fire was over, when we at last had news of my 
brother’s, safety, we made our preparations to 
leave Milwaukee, and on the following day, bade 
farewell to our cousins, the Cliftons, and started 
on our way. 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


99 


In spite of the lapse of years, the memory of 
that autumn day, October the ninth, 1871, is still 
clear and distinct. I can see my brother Lau- 
rence as he met us at the railway station, his face 
shining with happiness. There were tears in his 
eyes, though, and a certain tremulousness in his 
voice. He was a little ashamed of his emotion — 
it did not seem manly, to him I suppose — and he 
tried to be very cheerful and matter-oLfact. 
Mamma threw her arms about his neck and gave 
him a little squeeze that, for an instant, com- 
pletely robbed him of his self-possession. I had 
not realized before how grave had been my 
mother’s fears, for she had hidden them, as she 
always did, and had kept a composed and almost 
cheerful demeanor. 

"Nonsense, mother!” Laurence said in a 
rather shaky voice. " I haven’t been in danger 
for one instant. I’ve lost all my books, though, 
and Mr. Hill is ruined by the fire. It means be- 
ginning all over again, mother,” — with a little 
sigh. 

“You haven’t saved anything, Laurence.^” 
asked my mother half timidly. 

" How could I ? A fellow can’t go to dances 
and Germans and attend a fashionable church 
without spending a good deal of money, and that’s 
what I’ve done.” 

Kitty and I trotted along, almost forgotten by 
these two who had so much to .say to each other, 


lOO THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


but I at least listened with a keen interest. This 
tall handsome brother with the clear-cut intel- 
lectual face was always a hero in my eyes. ' 

“ You must remerrtber that you are a poor 
man’s son, now, Laurie,” poor mother said. “ If 
I could only find that deed.” The loss of an un- 
recorded deed to a block of Chicago land, bought 
by my father many years ago, was something I 
had often heard mentioned before. 

“ Ah, yes ! ” sighed Laurie. “ It’s no use to 
think of that, though. Do you know, the old 
man’s heirs had begun building on it when the 
fire broke out ? I went to see them about it, but 
they said, as they have always said before, that 
their father left no memorandum of any such sale, 
and, there being no deed and no record of a deed, 
they consider that we have no claim whatever on 
them.” 

“ Legally, no, but morally we have, Laurie.” 

“ They’re not the sort to recognize moral 
claims, mother. Perhaps not many would do 
so, in their place. Well, none of us here know 
how we stand now. The fire has changed 
everything for us, and we’ve got to wait to get 
over the shock and see what is left*before we 
make up our minds what we can do.” 

Laurence was in temporary quarters, as the 
house where he had been living was destroyed 
by the fire, so we went for the two days of our 
&tay in the city. to the home of 3ome other 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL, lot 


cousins of ours. They lived on Michigan 
Avenue, in what seemed to me then a very 
palace. Laurence spent with us as much of 
his time as he could spare, and piloted us about 
among the still-smoking ruins of the burnt dis- 
trict. I have never seen anything like the 
thoroughness with which the fire had done its 
work. Entire squares of buildings had been 
reduced to ashes and small debris that had 
settled down into the cellars without leaving 
even part of a wall or a chimney standing to 
mark the site. The fire had devoured every- 
thing along its track, and those who had wit- 
nessed the scene said that it seemed to pervade 
the air, — to fall from the heavens themselves. 

We bought some trifling relics, pieces of iron 
and glass all melted and welded together into 
an indistinguishable mass, and a sorry-looking 
china doll, who was, apparently, fireproof. 
Kitty and I were devoted to her ; I don’t know 
why, except that she was different from any 
other doll I ever saw'. The heat had faded her 
cheeks and dimmed the blue of her eyes, and all 
over the face were sprinkled grains of brown 
sand, or mortar, which had become firmly im- 
bedded in her china cheeks. She had exactly 
the appearance of many pale, freckly-faced, 
faded-eyed children I have seen in country dis- 
tricts. 

Laurie did not tell us whether Mr. Hill was 


102 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


going to be able to resume his business on its 
former basis or not. I fancy that if he did not 
already know that it was impossible, he more 
than suspected it, for he grew paler and more 
anxious as the days passed. When we bade 
him good-bye, I heard my mother say to him in 
a low tone, “ Keep up a brave heart, Laurie, and 
if you don't get a position, you must not hesi- 
tate to write me the truth. We shall never be 
so poor that we have to refuse help to our chil- 
dren, I hope.” 

The pinched, hunted look left my brother’s 
face momentarily, and he answered stoutly, 
“There’ll be no need for that, mother ; there is 
always something to do for those who are will- 
ing to work.” But as the train moved slowly 
out of the station, and he turned, after a last fare- 
well wave of the hand, he hung his head and 
there was a weary droop to his shoulders. 
Poor boy ! he was learning his first lesson, fight- 
ing his first battle, gallantly enough, it must 
be owned, but with what secret discouragement, 
with what misgivings ! 


CHAPTER XV. 


It was a very different scene on which we 
opened our eyes the following morning. The 
Northport of those days was rather a quiet, 
sleepy old town, scarcely recognizable in the 
gay and growing city of the present time. Here 
were peace, prosperity, quiet thrift, old-fashioned 
comfort. Square Jiouses, built of small red bricks, 
with white wooden porches and trimmings, or 
frame dwellings, very similar in outward form, 
stood directly on the street, with their three steps 
encroaching on the pavement, after the old Phila- 
delphia model. They had plenty of ground, but 
it was almost always at the rear of the house, 
or along one side. They made no pretensions to 
architecture ; indeed, I imagine that most of them 
were like Topsy, and “jes’ growed,” without the 
aid of a preliminary plan. One might have 
thought so, at any rate, after visiting a few of 
them and noting the clumsy devices, the strange 
inconveniences in their construction. I remem- 
ber one that was particularly fascinating to my 
eyes, so accustomed to everything new and rec- 
tangular. The ground-floor was laid out with- 
out any great surprises in its construction, but 


1 04 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


it was in the second story that the incautious 
explorer was in danger to life and limb. After 
mounting the rather narrow stairway, the stranger 
found himself in a hall of ordinary dimensions, 
leading him on till a dark place was reached. 
Then he fell down three steps — placed there ap- 
parently for no other reason than that he should 
fall down them — emerged shortly into the light, 
regained confidence, turned a corner, fell up 
three steps in another dark place, turned again, 
and shrank back aghast to find himself on the 
verge of again falling, this time down the precip- 
itous flight of back stairs that led to the kitchen. 

This was Mr. Billings’s house, become again 
our friend Arthur’s home, for he had returned 
to his father’s roof. There was a glacial atmo-. 
sphere about the place, however, that detracted 
from the enjoyment I should have experienced 
when we were invited there to tea, and there 
was a look in the second Mrs. Billings’s cold 
light eyes that said “ Hands off ! Children 
should be seen and not heard,” and a host of 
other repressive and disagreeable things. I 
shrank into myself and felt ever so much smaller 
and many years younger under that good lady’s 
watchful glance, although, to my mother’s great 
mortification (and my own, too, I may add), I per- 
sistently forgot to say “ Yes, ma’am,” and “ No, 
ma’am,” when addressed, and I dropped my 
knife on the floor with a horrid din that rang in 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 105 

my ears for a long time afterward. I choked, 
too, on my glass of milk, and spluttered until I 
felt that I should die of shame. Arthur, who, 
by request, sat next me, pounded me sympathe- 
tically on the back till I was forced to recover, 
and murmured encouraging words in my ear 
which had the effect of further disconcerting me. 
Before the tortures of that evening, I had never 
known that I was shy. Evidently, it was a 
quality that had come to stay though, for, like 
Mary’s lamb,, it followed me to school. 

To the public school I went very soon after 
our arrival in Northport, and again I, a girl of 
ten had, owing to my deficiency in arithmetic, 
to undergo the humiliation of being classed with 
children two years younger. How my heart 
swelled with rage and scorn as I sat among 
them ! What did they know of “ Oliver Twist ” 
and Baron Trenck } They had never even heard 
of Dickens. Bitter tears stole furtively down my 
cheeks and, splashing on the slate, washed out 
my bungling attempts at “ doing sums.” I 
sulked disconsolate through my other too easy 
tasks and, when playtime came, I folded my 
hands and sat at my desk — a picture of dignified 
loneliness and misery. I had not a wise and 
gentle teacher to guide me out of the labyrinth 
of my troubles. On the contrary, the young 
woman who presided over our class was a 
coarse and unmannerly person who had indeed 


Io6 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


“ risen from the ranks.” She was cross-eyed 
and distressingly plain, and she had a way of 
fixing her pupils with her one available eye and 
addressing them as “ You ! ” I, to my great dis- 
comfiture, could never tell when she was looking 
at me — at that time we did not know that I was 
shortsighted — and, when I got up to reply at the 
wrong moment, or ignored her when she really 
addressed me, she became furiously angry. She 
thought that I was making game of her infirmity. 
I, all unconscious of my own, was utterly at sea. 
Everything that I did seemed to be wrong. I 
went home every afternoon with my hateful 
arithmetic under my arm to be pored over dur- 
ing the evening hours ; it was always under my 
arm, it seemed to me, or open before my eyes. 
In my dreams, even, it sat on my chest, or 
danced a hornpipe across my fevered pillow. 

Sometimes, as I crossed a little foot-bridge 
that spanned the race by Case’s big flour-mill, 
I looked gloomily into the dark, fast-flowing 
stream and thought that death would be a wel- 
come release from my trials. > Could I ever, ever 
succeed in that great gloomy place, which out- 
side looked so like a factory and inside seemed 
to me like a mill that pitilessly ground us up and 
either turned us out made over after a certain 
pattern, or rejected us altogether. The question 
was — could I ever be made into that pattern ? 
In my discouragement, I thought not. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


Our new home was much smaller and hum- 
bler than the big house in Lep^re. It was an 
old building, dating back from the first half of 
the century and it was characterized by some of 
the same peculiarities of construction of which 
I have spoken in the preceding chapter. It stood 
flush with the street, with the usual three steps 
leading up to the door and, viewed from the 
front, it had something of the blank and staring 
look of a face devoid of eyebrows and lashes. 
There was no porch and there were no trimmings 
to relieve its architectural plainness. All of our 
ground was at the back of the house, a long and 
rather narrow lot which boasted of a few fruit 
and shade trees, some neglected flower-beds and, 
at the end furthest from the house, a small frame 
structure used by the former occupant of the 
house as a stable. We, of course, kept no horse, 
and the shed was too far away to be used for 
storing wood and coal. Therefore, with the ex- 
ception of some barrels and packing-cases in 
which our belongings had been brought from 
the West, the place was empty. It made a very 
nice play-house for us children and served by 


lo8 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

turns as a church, a hospital, a theatre, a school- 
house and even as a prison. 

While not in that part of town where the new- 
est and handsomest houses stood, we were still 
in a pleasant and respectable neighborhood. 
Our street was well shaded by large maple and 
locust trees, and the red brick sidewalks were 
bordered with a strip of lawn. Northport was 
the county seat and, not far from us stood the 
old court-house, a rather imposing monument of 
the classical taste which prevailed early in the 
century. Behind the court-house was the county 
jail, a red brick building, much newer and ab- 
solutely plain, fortunately little seen on account 
of the height of the surrounding walls and of 
some very tall locust trees growing just outside 
them. 

The autumn was mild and protracted that year. 
After school hours, it was my delight to play, 
during the remainder of the short afternoons, in 
the back-yard with my sister Kitty. I had never 
played with her very much before — there was so 
great a difference in our ages — but her docility, 
her admiration of me was like a balm to my 
wounded self-esteem, hurt to death in my en- 
counters with the public school system. 

At that time I was of a very martial turn of 
mind and I revelled in “ battle, murder, and 
sudden death.” In our campaigns, I was the 
commanding officer of our forces, Kitty being 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 109 

either a drummer boy or a color bearer, and I 
think that never before were a general’s resources 
so severely taxed. I gave the commands in sten- 
torian tones as we rushed on the imaginary foe, 
I imitated the booming of the cannon and the 
shrieks of the wounded, as well as blowing, 
when I had breath to spare, on a tin trumpet 
which served as a bugle. Then, when all was 
over and the victory was ours (as it always was) 
I turned surgeon or nurse and looked after the 
wounded — Kitty and her dolls. These were ex- 
hausting affrays, but doubtless they served me 
well after the long confinement of school hours. 

Just about supper time one evening in the 
latter part of November, it occurred to me that I 
had left my books in the stable, having gone there 
direct from school. It was by that time nearly 
dark, but I knew that I should need the books 
after supper, and so, without saying anything 
about it, I threw a wrap about my shoulders 
and, slipping out of a back door, ran down to the 
shed. As I entered the door, I fancied that 
I heard a slight movement. At first somewhat 
startled, I drew back. “ Pshaw ! it is only a 
mouse,” I said to myself, and, after slamming the 
door two or three times to frighten away the in- 
truder, I walked boldly in, and groped my way 
to the manger where I had laid the books that 
afternoon. As I stepped behind a big packing- 
Q?ise, my foot struck against something at once 


no THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


soft and unyielding. With a startled cry, I drew 
back but was instantly seized by my skirt and held 
fast, while a fierce voice that came from near the 
floor hissed, “Shut up, you little devil, or I’ll 
choke the life out of ye ! ” 

Without loosening its hold on me, the reclining 
figure rose to its knees and thus brought its face 
on a level with mine. In the dim light I could 
make out a cruel, fierce-looking countenance, 
low-browed, with a shock of wild and tumbled 
hair. The nose was flat and turned very much 
to one side, and the lower part of the face was 
covered with a short, stubby beard. It was a 
physiognomy not calculated under any circum- 
stances to inspire confidence, but,. in my present 
plight, the wonder to me was that I did not die 
then and there from sheer fright. The big hand 
that still clutched me gave me a fierce shake, and 
my captor went on, “ Now then, what are ye nosin’ 
’round here fer ? ” 

“ N — n — nothing,” I stammered through my 
chattering teeth. “ I — I just left my — my books 
here — that’s all.” 

“ Oh, that’s all, is it } ” giving me another shake. 
“ Well, you just take your books and get out, 
now ! Here, come back here ! ” he added, as I 
started to make a hasty exit without stopping for 
books or anything else. “ What you goin’ to do — 
goin’ to run up to the house and tell ? ” Once 
more I was seized in the grasp I h^d just escaped. 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. i 


“ Oh, no, sir, indeed I wasn’t. Please let me 
go. It’s ’most supper time and mamma won’t 
know what’s become of me.” 

“ Don’t any one know you’re here, eh ? Well, 
then. I’ve amindto jes’ cut yer throat this minute. 
Then you’ll be sure not to tell.” He gave a 
horrid chuckle that froze my blood, and began 
to fumble in one of his pockets with his disengaged 
hand. I could not speak ; my tongue was so dry 
that when I tried to utter a sound it only clicked 
against the roof of my mouth, and around the 
roots of my hair I felt a curious, pricking sen- 
sation. Even in the agony of that instant, I 
felt curious to know if my hair were really 
standing on end and half raised my hand to my 
head. 

“ Here, you keep still now,” growled the man. 
I don’t know whether he thought I carried a con- 
cealed weapon under my braids, for he dodged 
a little as though to avoid a blow. 

“ Now look here,” he went on impressively in his 
hoarse whisper. “ I ain’t here to hurt anything 
if I’m left alone. I’m tending to my own busi- 
ness an’ if any one interferes ” — “ here he swore 
an oath so terrible that I trembled afresh — “ I’ll 
cut the heart out of ’em. Mind that ! Now you 
know what I’ll do if you say one word about me. 
r 11 come and burn the house down over ye when 
ye’re asleep, I’ll ,” another flood of such lan- 

guage as it had never before been my misfprtqne 


1 12 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


to listen to. “ But if ye do edzackly what I tells 
ye, I won’t hurt ye or any of your fambly.” 

“Oh, thank you,” I gasped fervently. “It’s 
very good of you. I’m su ” 

“ Now cut that,” he rejoined, as if he suspected 
a sarcasm that I was far from intending. “ I ain’t 
here because I’m good, but that’s no business of 
yours ner anybody else’s. There’s three things 
you’ve got to promise me, before I let you go. 
First — s’ help ye Gawd, hold up yer right hand 
now an’ say — that ye hope to burn everlastin’ if 
ye tell.” 

He seemed somewhat mollified after I had 
taken this dreadful oath and went on in less 
blood-curdling tones. “ Nex’, s’ help ye, ye’ll 
bring me somethin’ good t’ eat before ye go to 
bed to-night. If ye don’t get here before nine 
o’clock I’ll come and burn ye up in yer bed. Now 
mind, no bread an’ butter an’ sich trash. I 
want meat an’ cake, er doughnuts — things like 
that. Could ye get some whiskey ? ” 

I was sure I couldn’t. There was none in the 
house, I told him, but would he take cider 
instead ? 

“Cider!” He gave a contemptuous snort. 
“Well, if that’s all you’ve go. I’ll take it, but 
bring plenty. If ye’ve got whiskey, though. I’ll 
find it out and then," he paused to think up some 
fresh threat. 

I assured him that i was speaking the trutli 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 1 13 

and, as he scrutinized me closely, he seemed to 
become satisfied that I was indeed doing so. 

“ The third thing is a hat, one of yer father’s 
hats. Bring that along, too.” 

“Oh, I couldn’t,” I faltered. “I couldn’t take 
one of papa’s hats. That would be really steal- 
ing.” 

“ Well, ye kin take yer choice. If ye don't 
bring it yer pa won’t have a head to wear it on, 
long ; that’s ,all.” The horrible significance of 
his tone, as he drew his finger across his throat 
to further make clear his meaning, had its in- 
tended effect. 

“ I’ll bring it — indeed I will. Now let me go, 
please, please. I shall die if you talk to me like 
that.” I began to sob hysterically. 

“ Stop, you little fool, I never see such a fool. 
Ain’t I tellin’ ye, ye’ll be all right if ye do as I 
tell ye. Now cut, and stop yer whinin’ ’fore ye 
git into the house.” 

I flew till I reached the back of the house. 
Honora, our maid-of-all-work, was just ringing 
the supper-bell and I looked in through the win- 
dow at the smoking hot supper, wishing that I 
could at once transport my share of it to the in- 
mate of the stable and have done with the job. 
As I opened the door into the dining-room, Kitty 
came frisking in. I had been hoping that I 
should be first on the scene and so get possession 
unobserved of something to carry away. I went 
8 


1 14 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


up to the sideboard and, as slily as I could, 
snatched a piece of cake from a plate. 

“ Oh, give me some, Bess ! ’’ said Kitty, whose 
observation I had been unable to escape. 

“ Sh — you’d just better hush ! ” I exclaimed, 
“ or I’ll — I’ll burn you up,” I added desperately. 
Such a short time does it take for evil communi- 
cations to corrupt. 

“ Why Bessie, my child, what are you saying ? ” 
My mother was behind me, she had heard my 
threat. I felt that I should sink through the 
floor. “ Put back that cake and take your place 
at the table. You may do without cake this 
evening.” 

I sat down, feeling desperate, and forgot to 
bow my head as my father asked a blessing on 
our food. At this rate, how was I to feed my 
strange guest ? 

“ Bessie, I have asked you twice if you want 
any meat ? ” Papa’s voice broke in upon my 
musings. 

“ Oh, excuse me, papa. I was thinking about 
something else. Yes, I’ll take some — lots, 
please, if I can’t have any cake to-night.” I 
fixed my eyes vengefully on the innocent Kitty. 
If she only hadn’t been around at the wrong 
minute. I had heard other girls with little 
brothers or sisters say that that was apt to be 
the case, however. 

“ I will give you a proper amount, Bessie, and 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 1 1 5 

then if you are still hungry, you can have more,” 
replied my father, passing the plate. Everybody 
was against me to-night, I thought bitterly, and 
here I was, trying to save their lives at the risk 
of myown. I couldn’t manage to slide anything 
off my plate, either. Somebody was always 
looking at me, it seemed. Either Honora was 
walking around the table, or mamma’s, or 
papa’s, or Kitty’s eyes were fixed on me. I 
dropped a piece of meat into my lap, as if by ac- 
cident, but my mother immediately called my at- 
tention to the fact, and I was obliged to restore it 
to my plate. I finally gave up the attempt, 
thinking that I must manage to get something 
after the meal was ended. 

“ Well, Bess, what has become of that ferocious 
appetite you were telling us about ? ” asked papa, 
at length, noticing my almost untouched food. 
If they only knew, I thought ! How could I eat 
with that horrid secret on my mind, and I’d got 
to steal, too, and no doubt tell endless falsehoods 
in order to carry out my designs. My brain was 
in a whirl. I was not a child who would have 
adorned a Sunday-school book, but such whole- 
sale duplicity as I was at present involved in 
seemed terrible to me. I faltered some excuse 
about not being hungry any more (which was 
true enough) and leaned back in my chair. My 
mother looked at me scrutinizingly, and under 
her gaze my eyes fell. Afterward, she told me 


Ii6 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


that it was my pallor and lack of appetite that 
made her regard me so closely, but, at the time, 
I trembled for fear that she suspected my secret. 

The cake plate passed me without stopping, 
but I did not care. If there were to be no chance 
of carrying a piece away from the table, it ceased 
to matter to me whether I had anything more to 
eat or not. 

After the supper table was cleared and Kitty 
was put to bed, we usually sat in the dining-room 
of an evening — mamma with her sewing, papa 
sometimes with his violin, sometimes with a 
book, and I with my arithmetic and slate, receiv- 
ing occasional help and instruction from them 
when I got to a very hard place. 

On this evening, when the others left the table, 

I hung back. Eluding the vigilance of Honora, 

I obtained possession of two goodly pieces of 
cake. The meat had been carried into the 
kitchen, but, while she was engaged in clearing 
the table, I made way with a big turkey drum- 
stick and some slices of beef. Catching up a 
towel and wrapping my plunder in it, I Hed 
hastily up the backstairs to my room. At the 
threshold of the closed door I stopped, however. 
My mother was already there, putting Kitty to 
bed. I hid in the hall-closet until all was dark 
and quiet in the bedroom (it seemed a very long 
time) and, as my mother went down the front 
Stairs, I softly opened the creaking door and 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 117 

possessed myself of a small pitcher from the 
washstand. So far all was well, but how was I 
to fill it with cider ? Even if I could do so un- 
observed, I felt that I dared not creep down into 
the dark cellar. There might be another un- 
suspected visitor lurking there, too. I had lost 
confidence even in bolts and bars, after my 
afternoon’s experience. 

“Well, he can just do without cider,” I said 
aloud, in my desperation. I had some money, 
though, in my little iron bank, enough to buy 
more cider than I could possibly carry out to the 
stable. Perhaps that would pacify him. In my 
haste to unscrew the top, I let it fall on the floor 
with an awful crash. Kitty half sat up in bed 
and muttered something in her sleep and, down- 
stairs, I could hear my mother push back her 
chair and utter some exclamation. With shak- 
ing fingers, I poured out the pennies and five 
cent pieces, and, grasping my bundle of food, I 
again sought the seclusion of the closet. 

My mother was calling me from the foot of the 
stairs. I heard her say as she turned away, 
“ Henry, what do you think ails that child ? She 
looks so wild and strange — ” the rest ot the sen- 
tence was lost as she re-entered the dining-room. 
I groaned aloud. So she suspected something 
and I must keep on with my weary game of hide- 
and-seek. 

It seemed the most serious step of all to take 


Ii8 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


one of my father’s hats. Child as I was, I knew 
that everything must be made to last as long as 
possible now, so I determined to take the old soft 
felt hat that he wore in stormy weather. I tip- 
toed down the stairs. Papa was reading aloud 
and I could hear the snip-snip of my mother’s 
scissors as she cut out some embroidered edging. 
I took down the hat with tears in my eyes. It 
seemed too dreadful to think of such a man wear- 
ing my dear father’s hat. If only I could have 
had time to talk to him and convince him of the 
error of his ways. A thought struck me as I 
folded up the hat and stuffed it into my pocket. 
I would take my catechism out to him. Perhaps 
I could induce him to read it and be a better man. 
It was in the drawer of the hall table and I took 
it out, with a sigh of regret. On the paper cover 
was written in my father’s best hand “ Bessie 
Benton, Miss Carson’s Class.” I had half a mind 
to tear off the outside, but no — maybe that would 
be sacrilegious. It must go as it was. 

With my bundle behind me I edged into the 
dining-room. 

“Isn’t it time to study, Bessie?” asked my 
mother, raising her eyes from her work. 

“ In a minute, mamma. I’m — I’m — hunting for 
my arithmetic.” Another lie on my already over- 
burdened conscience. “ I must have left it in the 
woodshed, I guess.” 

At last I was free from observation. From the 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 119 

woodshed I stepped out into the starlit night with 
a sense of positive relief and I ran half way down 
the yard before I stopped to think what I was 
going to. Oh, how could I put myself in the 
clutches of that awful creature again ? My speed 
slackened. I glanced back over my shoulder at 
the bright window of the room I had left behind. 
Mamma’s head was bent low over her work ; 
Papa had taken out his violin and he had a rapt, 
dreamy expression on his face as he drew the 
bow across the instrument. The music came 
faintly to my ear — “ Home, Sweet Home.” 

“Oh, I wish he wouldn’t play that ! I’ve got 
to save them, now,” I whispered as the tears 
rained down myTace. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


My uninvited guest took my poor little savings 
eagerly enough, though he was as ungracious as 
ever. His temper did not seem to have improved 
during my absence. He anathematized the hat, 
which was rather too large for his bullet head, 
and swore at the quantity and quality of the food 
I had brought. As for the catechism, he received 
that with such scorn and derision, that I repented 
even having made the effort to save such a crea- 
ture. It seemed to me as if the lightnings of 
heaven must instantly descend and destroy a 
man who talked as he did about the Episcopal 
catechism. 

“ Now,” he said deliberately, after stowing 
away the food and money in his pockets and pull- 
ing papa’s hat well over his eyes. “I’ve a good 
mind to cut yer tongue out, to save ye the trouble 
of tellin’ about this.” 

“ Oh, I promise on a whole stack of Bibles, 
hope to die this minute, I won’t. Don't — after 
I’ve taken such a lot of trouble, too — ” this in- 
gratitude was too much and my tears flowed 
afresh. 

“ Huh ! ” grunted the man. “ Precious lot 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 12 1 


you've done for me. Here you’ve ben a stuffin’ 
yerself with all kinds o’ things t’ eat an’ I a-starvin’ 
out here. It’s enough to make a man sick to 
think of ! ” 

Somehow, I could not bring myself to feel par- 
ticularly moved at this touching picture. Per- 
haps my friend was unfortunate in his manner. 

“ Well, now,” I remarked, with a dignity that 
seemed to me perfectly awe-inspiring under such 
circumstances. “ I’ll put my hand on the cate- 
chism and promise never, never to tell, but I just 
can’t stay here any longer.” 

“ Who want’s yer ? ” retorted the man. 

“ And you’d better go away from here right 
away,” I went on ignoring this rude interruption. 
“ Kitty comes down here to play every day and 
she’s so little, she’d surely tell, and oh, if you 
should frighten her — ” I broke off with a sob. 

“ I’ll be gone from this place by to-morrer and 
don’t yer furgit it. Now don’t give me any more 
o’ your guff. It ’ud take more’n you ter frighten 
7ne." 

I took up my books and edged off towards the 
door. “Well — good-bye,” I said lamely, as I 
backed out. 

“ Good-bye — efyou ain’t the rummest — ” the re- 
mainder of the sentence was lost, for the despised 
catechism in one hand, my school books in the 
other, I was making the best use of my legs to get 
back to the house. 


122 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

“ Bessie, child; come here,” said my mother, 
as, flushed and panting, I entered the dining-room. 

“ How long you have been ! ” She laid her 
cool hand on my forehead, but I shrank guiltily 
from her touch, “Your head seems very hot, 
dear; does it ache ! ” she asked tenderly. 

I did not reply. I could not. A great ball 
seemed rolling up and down in my throat. 

“ You had better not study to-night,” she went 
on, still caressing my head. “ Come upstairs 
and I will put you to bed and sit by you until you 
are asleep — just as we used .to when you were 
little.” 

Oh, the blessed balm of that motherly touch, of 
that motherly presence ! What a protection I 
felt it about me as I dozed off into feverish 
slumber, starting wildly up two or three times, 
to find that dear form still there by my bedside. 
What could happen with my mother there, 
awake, and watching over me ? As if in a 
dream, I heard her say once “ I am afraid she is 
going to be ill, Henry. She is so restless, and 
moans and tosses in her sleep.” 

And I awoke to find the faces of my parents 
bending over me. I clasped their hands in mine. 
“ Don’t go away,” I murmured, and sleep again 
overtook me. 

When I next awakened the sun was shining 
into my room and Kitty had gone from beside 
me. Prom the room below came sounds of 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


123 


voices and the rattle of dishes. “It must be 
late,” I thought, and although I felt weak and 
languid, I made haste to dress and go down, 
stairs. 

As my consciousness became gradually com- 
plete, I began to wonder if my experience had 
been real, or if I were the victim of a horrid 
nightmare. “ If the money and hat are gone, I 
shall know,” I said to myself. The money cer- 
tainly had disappeared, and my bank lay in two 
parts on the bureau. I screwed it together again 
before I went down to breakfast. As I passed 
through the hall, I took note that my father’s old 
hat was not there. Then it was all true and I 
must carry the burden of that dreadful secret 
alone. With as much cheerfulness as I could 
assume, I assured them that I was very well ; 
and, indeed, the appetite I brought to my break- 
fast went far towards proving my assertion. 
After the fast of the night before I was ravenous, 
and even an overloaded conscience was for- 
gotten in ministering to the wants of an empty 
stomach. 

Papa had his morning paper beside his plate, 
and as usual, read aloud scraps of news from 
time to time. 

“These Tweed Ring exposures are taking on 
a very serious look, Lou. It is amazing to see 
how wide-spread the corruption has been. 
Hello, here’s that man Fancher escaped again.” 


124 the memoirs of a little girl.' 

He read the staring head lines of an article on 
the first page of the journal. 

The Desperate Burglar, Fancher, Once 
More at Large. His Escape a Mys- 
tery. Jail Officials Scored. 

“ ‘ Sometime about dusk last evening, the bur- 
glar Fancher, who was an inmate of the county 
jail, there awaiting trial, made his escape. It 
was almost immediately discovered and the 
sleuth-hounds of justice were on his trail. 
Nevertheless, up to going to press no trace of 
his whereabouts has been discovered. It is 
thought he must have had accomplices both 
within and without the jail walls, however, and 
a most searching investigation will be made. 
Those who have, either by willful carelessness or 
by active help, aided this monster to escape, 
will not be suffered to evade the penalty of their 
crime. It is a felony to assist a felon to elude 
the consequences of his misdeeds. May the 
perpetrators of this piece of rascality soon be 
lodged in a felon’s cell ! It is stated that a large 
reward will to-day be offered for the apprehen- 
sion of the miscreant. His description, as fol- 
lows, will also be posted — George Fancher, 5 ft. 
8 in. in height, age 35 years, weight 165 pounds, 
stooping shoulders and shuffling walk, dark 
eyes, complexion swarthy, dark, thick hair, a 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 125 

short beard, extraordinarily large hands and 
feet, and nose flattened and turned to one side.’” 

Here I dropped my head on my hands and 
burst into tears. I had not only deceived, stolen, 
lied, but, worse yet, I had committed a crime. I 
was in danger of imprisonment, disgrace. Papa 
had let his paper fall and was staring at me in 
astonishment, my mother was at my side trying 
to soothe me, and Kitty howled from sympathy. 

“ Why, what a most extraordinary child ! ” 
exclaimed my father. “ What in the world ails 
you these few days, Bessie ? ” 

My mother raised her hand to silence his 
questions and drew me away from the table into 
another room. She sat silent, stroking my hand 
until I grew somewhat calmer. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


“ Now, my little girl,” said mamma when my 
sobs had ceased, “ I want you to tell me what is 
on your mind. Last night I thought you were 
ill, but it seems now as though it must be some- 
thing even more serious.” 

She paused ; she was perhaps thinking of the 
time that I read the two novels in secret and 
suffered such pangs of conscience that I was 

finally forced to confess, or the time but why 

enumerate my crimes ? 

There was a long pause, then mamma went 
on persuasively, “ I don’t think that you’ve ever 
found me very severe with you, Bessie, and you 
know how much better you felt after you told me 
about ‘ St. Elmo.’ ” 

“ I cant, mamma,” I burst out. “ It’s some- 
thing I can’t tell about. I promised I wouldn’t.” 

“ ‘A bad promise is better broken than kept.”' 

“ Well, it wasn’t just an ordinary promise, 
mamma, but I put my hand on my catechism 
and said I hoped to die if I told.” 

“ It must have something to do with Honora, 
then. I saw you carrying your catechism out 
into the kitchen last evening, after you had acted 


THE MEMOTRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 127 

very strangely at supper. If you still refuse to 
tell me, I shall have to question her.” 

I felt a little more easy on seeing my mother 
wandering so far off from the track, though it 
occurred to me that Honora might have missed 
one of her dish-towels and the provisions I had 
taken. 

1 was excused from going to school that morn- 
ing, and, while my mother went to interview 
Honora, whose loud protestations could be heard 
in the distance, my father tried his persuasive 
powers on me. He was at length forced to 
abandon the attempt without making any more 
headway than my mother had done, and he al- 
most broke my heart by going down town with- 
out kissing me good-bye. All I could say was 
that I must not, dared not tell, and this I re- 
iterated. 

As the days wore on, my parents ceased to 
question me any further, and, although I felt that 
there was a little constraint between my mother 
and me, still things went on very much as they 
used to do. I gradually ceased to tremble as 
the morning papers announced that no clue had 
been discovered that would lead to Fancher’s 
capture, or to the discovery of those who had 
aided him. It might never be found out, I 
argued. I had heard of murderers who were 
never discovered and perhaps I might be equally 
fortunate. Still, I could not help reading the 


128 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


posters on the fences ; they had a horrible fas- 
cination for me, and from afar off I grew to rec- 
ognize the very black lettering at the top which, 
near by, read “$500 Reward! For the ap- 
prehension of George Fancher,” etc. I did not 
know what the word “ apprehension " meant. I 
had thought it signified fear, and, used in such a 
connection, it puzzled me greatly. But 1 never 
dared to ask any one for an explanation, or in- 
deed, to mention anything that bore on this 
dread subject. And so time passed on and my 
fears were gradually allayed, though my con- 
science was not at ease. When in church they 
used to sing “ He the hidden sin glossed over, 
can discover.” .... I always quivered at the 
thought of my own secret, and when our clergy- 
man began : 

“ Dearly beloved brethren, the Scripture 
moveth us in sundry places to acknowledge and 
confess our manifold sins and wickedness ” — it 
seemed sometimes that I must get up from my 
knees and make a public confession of my wrong- 
doing. 

However, these were only occasional twinges 
of conscience. I was too healthy a little girl to 
brood always over such a secret, and, in many 
respects, life was beginning to look much brighter 
to me. I was getting on better in arithmetic 
now, and was expecting soon to be promoted to 
the higher class, where I really should have been 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 129 

from the first. It was well on in December, and 
the children of St. John’s Sunday-school were 
busy in practicing Christmas carols for the usual 
celebration. Every Wednesday and Saturday 
evening we went to the church, a merry crowd of 
boys and girls, and sang to the accompaniment 
of the big organ. The church, under those cir- 
cumstances, was perfectly fascinating to me ; 
only a small proportion of the gas jets were 
lighted, and the dim and shadowed arches looked 
twice as imposing as by daylight. It seemed to 
me as though it must be very much like West- 
minster Abbey, barring the tombs. Many years 
afterwards, when I visited the Abbey, it was a 
great surprise that it looked not one whit more 
vast or imposing to me then than St. John’s had 
seemed to my childish eyes. 

Miss Carson, the teacher of my Sunday-school 
class — an ethereal blonde, wdth High Church 
tendencies — was not often with us at the re- 
hearsals. She was supposed to be “going out 
into society,” a vague term that embraced the 
somewhat mild dissipations of Northport society. 
When she did come, the sweetness of her voice 
and her seemingly wonderful art in using it, 
made her appear like an angel to me. She 
always sang with her head a little thrown back, 
and her delicate face and pale gold hair seemed 
to absorb all the light and shone out strangely 
against the dim background of the stone arches. 
9 


130 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

I was unfortunately several shades darker than 
Miss Carson, but my ambition during that 
entire winter was to be as much as possible like 
her in other respects. During the service, I 
bowed as fervently as she, and I should have 
liked very much to cross myself as I had seen 
her do, only that I knew that I should be laughed 
at by my small companions and so refrained. 

I was beginning to make triends in Northport 
— not much at school, for I was still in too low a 
grade to care to do that — but in Sunday-school 
and in church and with the boys next door, who 
at first limited their social amenities to making 
faces at Kitty and me over the fence and shouting 
some doggerel rhymes to our name. These were 
the two Langdon boys, Tom and Teddy, aged 
respectively twelve and ten. Then, in my Sun- 
day-school class were Nettie and Cora Billings, 
cousins of our friend Arthur, the children of his 
lawyer uncle, gentle, pretty little girls, whom I, 
however, secretly thought very lacking in re- 
sources for a “ good time.” In the same class 
were also Cissie Hankinson, a big, clever, good- 
natured girl of eleven, who looked years older than 
she really was, and so obtained little credit for her 
unusual brightness, and Elinor Harwood (a cousin 
of Cissie’s, but unlike her in every respect), a small, 
mouse-like child, secretly jealous and spiteful, 
though extremely pretty, with innocent brown 
eyes and blond, curling hair. There were, besides 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 13 1 

these, Emma Fantucci (pronounced in North port 
Fan-took-y), the child of an Italian father and an 
American mother, and, last of all, the little de- 
formed Carrie Crane, who had hip disease and 
limped painfully. 

We had heavy snows in Northport, and, after 
school, I took my sled to the long hill near by. 
It led down to the mill-race — frozen over now — 
and it took great skill in steering to turn the 
sleds at the bottom of the hill just right to follow 
its frozen surface. Teddy Langdon was good- 
natured enough to show me how, and, after a few 
painful failures, I learned to guide my sled aright. 
Teddy was a very pretty boy. 1 did not think so 
then — indeed, I thought very little of my friends’ 
personal appearance in those days. He was 
dark and rosy-cheeked, with curling hair and a 
straight, well-built figure. He was so very well- 
favored that he attracted an amount of attention 
which he found very annoying. At school, some of 
the older girls — young ladies of sixteen or seven, 
teen — used to try to kiss him, and people were 
always talking about his curls or his eyes. He 
used to beg to have his hair cut so close that the 
curl would not show, and he tried to be as rough 
and boisterous as it was possible for a boy to be. 
I sometimes wondered why boys liked girls at all ; 
they had such an unfeigned horror of being or 
doing “like a girl,” and it hurt my feelings some- 
times to have Teddy say, as he often did, “Girls 


132 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

don’t know anything.” That was his last unan- 
swerable argument, when he found that I was 
getting the better of him in any respect. Per- 
haps I should not have liked him so well, if he 
had been politer to me ; I don’t know now 
whether that would have made a difference, but, 
as it was, I was absurdly anxious to have Teddy’s 
good opinion, and fairly wore myself out in my 
efforts to extort a word of praise from the candid 
youth — quite to no purpose, however. Teddy 
was like many other frank people that I have 
since met — unsparing of criticism, but most par- 
simonious of praise ; plain-spoken when their 
friends are in the wrong, silent when they are in 
the right. Tom Langdon was really very much 
nicer, though I did not realize it then. He was 
not good-looking, and he was as anxious to 
please as Teddy was indifferent. One would 
have thought him the younger of the two, Teddy 
lorded it over him to such an extent. Oh, but 
there never was such a one as Teddy for taking 
the worst spot in the hill, coming down it with a 
rush that made one dizzy to watch, turning his 
sled just at the right point to gracefully sweep 
down the mill-race almost out of sight. And his 
aim at snowballing was unerring, though I must 
confess that he made the snowballs a little too 
hard for the thorough enjoyment of other people, 
Then he was such a fast skater, and he did the 
*' outside edge,” the “ Dutch roll,” “ figure eights,” 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 133 

and skated backward just as well as he did for- 
ward. In mental acquirements, he did not shine so 
pre-eminently, but he had such a disdainful way 
of going through a lesson that he did not know ! 
It almost made one ashamed of studying and try- 
ing so hard to get on. In fact, I rather concealed 
my studiousness as something detrimental. 
Teddy confided to me that he didn't like “digs,” 
as he called those who worked hard at their les- 
sons. I dreaded having him think me a “dig,” 
and, after he began walking home with me from 
school, I used to shove my arithmetic down deep 
into one of my ample coat pockets in a way that 
was very damaging to the pocket. But, have my 
friend think I studied at home — never ! 


CHAPTER XIX. 


We were going to a party — Kitty and I — a 
Christmas party. My mother thought that it was 
almost too much dissipation for us to have the 
church celebration on Christmas eve and a party 
the next night, but we did not agree with her. 
How I should ever settle down again to every- 
day life, I did not know. We lived for a whole 
week on the anticipation of the lovely party that 
Mrs. Fantucci was to give for Emma. Our cos- 
tumes were a great source of worry to me until 
I began to gather from things that I overheard, 
from measurements that were made, and from 
scraps that occasionally woult^ drop from 
mamma’s work-basket, that we were to have 
new frocks for Christmas. Of course, I took 
mamma’s feelings too much into consideration 
to appear to suspect anything ; but, having dis- 
covered so much, I was on tenter-hooks to know 
for whom the red one was intended and for 
whom the blue. Being fair, and blue being con- 
sidered my predestined color, I longed for the red, 
which usually fell to Kitty’s share. And then, one 
day, Emma Fantucci brought to Sunday-school 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 135 

a piece of the dress she was to have, a deep gar- 
net silk, and passed it round slily when Miss 
Carson was talking, as she sometimes did, to 
Arthur Billings, who taught a class of boys in 
the next seats to us. Arthur’s boys could do 
anything when Miss Carson was talking to him, 
and Arthur never seemed to be the wiser. 

“ I guess I’m going to have a new red dress, 
too,” I said, trying to assert myself a little. 

“You guess," giggled Elinor Harwood. 
“ Can’t you tell colors yet. Baby Benton ?” 

What I should have done, if Miss Carson had 
not suddenly resumed her attention to the class, 
I do not know ; but, as it was, I had to content 
myself with looking witheringly at Elinor at 
intervals when my teacher’s eye was not on me. 
Then I forgot the insult I had received, and fell 
to picturing Emma’s dark beauty set off by that 
lovely red silk. Doubtless she would wear, too, 
the Roman sash I had heard about, which her 
father had brought her from Rome. I roused 
myself with a sigh as we rose to sing a final 
hymn. It was absurd, I thought, as I glanced 
sidewise at my pretty teacher, perfectly absurd 
that Arthur Billings never could find his place 
any more and had to look on with Miss Carson 
over the partition that separated their pews. 

“ I wonder what she’d say if Tom Langdon 
tried to look over with me?” queried Elinor 
Harwood. 


136 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


“ ‘ Children, children, remember where you 
are ! ’ ” mimicked Cissie Hankinson, as we 
tumbled on our knees for the final prayer, Cissie 
sliding off from the little bench on to the floor, a 
feat which she was apt to perform. Miss Car- 
son raised her delicate eyebrows and looked at 
her reproachfully, which made Cissie give me a 
violent nudge in the side. I promptly fell off the 
bench with a distressing clatter, picked myself 
up red and shamefaced, and had not the courage 
to approach Miss Carson afterwards and ex- 
plain that my imitation was accidental. She had 
forgotten me probably, anyway, for she w'as 
walking out with Arthur, and he had possessed 
himself of her big hymn-book and book of les- 
sons as though he meant to walk home with her. 

“Spoons!” sniffed Teddy as we walked be- 
hind them. We were walking home together, 
too, as we often did, but the situation was saved 
by the fact that my escort did not offer to carry 
anything for me, or step out into the snow and 
give me the cleared part of the walk. On the 
contrary, when he saw anything or anybody that 
he wanted to snowball, he unceremoniously 
unloaded his books on me. 

“ Are you surely going to the party, Teddy ? ” 
I asked, still pursuing the topic that was upper- 
most in my mind. 

“ I d’ know. I’d go if I didn’t have to wear 
that blamed velvet jacket. I’ll lie down in the 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 137 

snow in it or — something — pretty soon,” said my 
companion desperately. 

“ Oh, I wouldn’t stay home for that,” I said, 
attempting consolation. “ I guess you’ll look 
just as nice as the other boys.” 

“Yes, it’s easy enough for a girl to talk. 
They never care how silly they’re fixed up, but it 
makes me sick to wear a velvet coat with a lace 
collar, just ’s if I was a hand-organ monkey.” 
Mrs. Langdon’s artistic ideas had been a great 
source of suffering to her youngest born, and it 
was no solace, but rather an added grievance, to 
him to overhear grown people call him “ a 
cherub ” or “ a perfect picture.” 

“Well, Tin going to have a new red dress, 
Teddy.” Hope by this had grown to a certainty 
in my mind. 

My friend received this news without even a 
polite show of interest. 

“ I guess they’ll have ice-cream, don’t you ? ” 
he asked, a gleam of hope lighting his discontent. 

“ Oh, they’ll surely have that, and maybe 
lemonade and candy too. I went to a party in 
Milwaukee where they had all those things and 
little paper caps and mottoes with crackers that 
you pull.” 

“ Oh, yes, and then the girls squeal and put 
their lingers in their ears. They're no fun. I 
wish we could have fire-crackers — real big ones. 
I don’t see why people don’t have ’em in the 
winter.” 


13S THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL, 

“ They’d burn up the houses, you silly, and if 
you threw ’em out into the snow they wouldn’t 
go off.” 

“ You could hold ’em in your hand, then. 
Tom held one in his teeth once till it began to 
sputter and it went off before it got quite to the 
ground, too. Tom ain’t afraid of anything. 
Say, come on and go skating after dinner, Bess. 
I know an awful nice place.” 

“ On the lake ? Mamma wouldn’t let me for 
anything, Teddy, not on Sunday, anyhow.” 

“No, t’aint on the lake. It’s ever so much 
nearer, but I shan’t tell you where unless you’ll 
promise to come along.” 

I hnally compromised by promising to go 
along and slide, I did not think that that would 
be so wicked as skating. It would be no worse 
than walking, I argued. 

After dinner I slipped out without saying any- 
thing about it, and joined Teddy, who was lying 
in wait for me around the corner. Together we 
proceeded to the pond which he had discovered, 
a low lying vacant lot about a quarter of a mile 
from our house, where the snow had melted and 
frozen again before it had had time to dry up. 
We had the ice all to ourselves and found it 
much nicer than the mill race, which was always 
more or less cut up by sled runners and by the 
numerous skaters. I began to regret so bitterly 
not having brought my skates, that Teddy 


the Memoirs of a little girl. 139 

offered to take off his and lend them to me for a 
few moments. He instantly repented of his 
generosity, however, and took back the offer, 
saying that instead he would show me some 
fancy skating. This did not serve to keep me 
very warm, and, instead of watching his feats, I 
ran and slid as fast as I could about the edge 
of the lot. I was going nicely when my foot 
struck some object partly frozen into the pond, 
and I sprawled flat on my face on the ice. 

‘ Did the ground come up and hit you, Bess,” 
shouted Teddy facetiously from the other side of 
the pond. He did not hasten to my help, but 
skated quite leisurely towards me. I raised 
myself on all fours and looking at the cause of 
my fall I was astonished to see my own name, 
“ Benton, No. 12,” written in my mother’s best 
hand. 

‘ Hello, what s that ? asked Teddy. “ B-e-n-t ” 
— but I covered up the writing and strove with 
all my strength to tear up the material — in vain, 
however. It was frozen fast. A light had 
begun to dawn on me, and my heart thumped 
painfully as I realized that one evidence of my 
crime had come to light. 

“ Why it’s a towel — and it’s got your name on 
it, Bess,” went on Teddy, pushing me aside. 

“ Oh, what shall I do,” I wailed. “ Promise, 
projnise me, Teddy, that you’ll never tell about 
it.” 


140 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

“ Really and truly— cross my heart," assented 
Teddy cheerfully. “ What did you do — hook 
it? ” 

“ No, I wouldn’t hook,"— I stopped, remem- 
bering my father’s felt hat. “ 1 mean to say,” 
I went on slowly, “that I didn’t put it here, but 
1 guess it’s one I took to do up a — lunch in. Do 
help me get it out.’’ 

“ I will — next summer. I’d like to see you 
get it out before.’’ 

“ I’ve got to,’’ 1 responded firmly. “ Lend me 
your knife — please do.’’ 

“Now, don’t you break it,” said my cautious 
friend, producing the knife, with some reluctance. 
“ If you do. I’ll tell.” 

“ Teddy ! and you just said cross your heart 
that you wouldn’t. Well, I never ! ” Words 
failed me in which to express my opinion of such 
juggling with promises, and I went on in silence, 
hacking at the frozen cloth until I succeeded in 
cutting out the tell-tale writing. 

“ What you goin’ to do, now, Bess — throw it 
away ? ” asked Teddy, as he skated slowly about 
me. 

“ No, I’m going home now, and I’m going to 
put it in the stove.” I thrust the piece deep into 
one of my pockets and rose to my feet. Teddy 
wouldn’t go, he had not finished skating yet, and 
so, after making him repeat his promise, I set 
off alone. 


CHAPTER XX. 


“ Bessie, what does this mean ? ” asked my 
mother. “ This ’’was a grimy, damp bit of cloth 
which I recognized as the fatal piece of towel I 
had taken such pains to hide. 

When I reached home on Sunday afternoon, I 
found my father and Kitty popping corn over the 
dining-room fire. So interested did I become in 
this process that I forgot the urgency of the 
errand that had brought me back. The next 
morning, my mother, in making her usual Mon- 
day round through my pockets for handkerchiefs, 
brought to light the piece of towel, and the 
“ murder was out.” 

I hung my head in silence, trying to think 
what excuse I could offer. 

“ This is a part of one of our towels, Bessie. 
Why did you cut it up like this ? Do you think 
we are so rich that you can afford to waste so 
wickedly ? ” 

“ I didn’t put it there, mamma,” I faltered. 

“ Didn’t put it in your own pocket, Bessie ? ” 

“Yes — no — I mean in the pond ” — and I went 
on to explain confusedly how I had found the 


142 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


towel, and that I didn’t like to have it lie there 
all winter with our name on it for everyone to 
read. Mamma was displeased with me for going 
to slide on Sunday, and I could see that she did 
not quite understand about the towel. As a 
matter of fact, she had never entirely regained 
confidence in me since my refusal to tell the 
cause of my strange conduct some time before. 

“ Since you are so lucky in finding things, 
Bessie, perhaps you can help your father to find 
his soft hat. It is so snowy this morning that 
he wants to wear it.” My mother fixed me with 
her eye. 

I could feel my face growing scarlet, but I an- 
swered, as I could truthfully do : “I haven’t the 
least idea where it is, mamma.” 

My embarrassment had not escaped her, how- 
ever, and later I overheard her talking about it 
with my father. “ It’s the strangest thing, 
Henry,” she was saying. “The child couldn’t 
possibly want such things. It can’t be that the 
child is developing kleptomania.” 

Mania meant insanity, I knew, but what was 
the rest of it, I wondered. Anyway I was pretty 
sure I wasn’t going crazy. Anybody would have 
done as I did about the towel, though I had long 
since doubted the wisdom of my course in regard 
to the burglar. If I had only been a clever little 
girl, I should have gone straight off and told a 
policeman, and then I should have got the five 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


43 


hundred dollars’ reward. Five hundred dollars ! 
I often thought of that brilliant possibility and of 
what use I might have made of the money. I 
should have bought my father a new hat, of 
course, a beautiful, shiny silk one, and an over- 
coat lined with satin, and mamma a silk dress 
with yards and yards of real lace on it, a 
mauve silk, very light in shade, like the party 
dresses she used to wear in Lep^re, when I was 
a very little girl. And I would have a pony and 
a red silk frock like Emma Fantucci’s, and 
Scott’s novels, about which Cissie Hankinson had 
been telling me — and a new set of Dickens’, with 
lots of pictures, and a sled just like Teddy’s, and 
some club skates, and — a thousand other things. 

Then, sometimes, it came into my mind that if 
Fancher could get out once, he might do so 
again. In that case, he would certainly have 
come back and wreaked his vengeance on me and 
on my innocent family. Perhaps the compara- 
tive peace of mind I was still able to enjoy was 
worth five hundred dollars ; I wasn’t sure. 

We had a beautiful snowstorm and the world 
looked very white and fresh for Christmas. The 
carols went of quite well, though I am afraid 
that some of us sang hopelessly off the key. I 
know that Cissie, who stood next to me, did. 
She persisted in singing something which she 
called alto. It consisted of a sort of growling ac- 
companinient, many notes lower than the ?Lir, and 


144 the memoirs OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

it had a very demoralizing effect on the singers 
near her. But the church looked beautiful with 
its evergreen decorations and the big tree full of 
candles and gay silk bags of candy for each boy 
and girl in the Sunday-school, 

I didn’t sleep much that night, and, when I did, 
I dreamed of a giant Christmas tree whose chief 
decoration was a brilliant red frock for me. As 
I advanced to receive it from the hands of the 
superintendent, Mr. Rawson, it seemed to shrink 
in size, and he said, “ It’s for your little sister ” — 
then the big organ began to boom and drowned 
the sobs with which I received this information. 

I heard Teddy Langdon laugh behind me, and 
Elinor Harwood was pointing her finger at me 
and saying, " Can’t tell colors — can’t tell time — 
can’t do sums — Baby Benton ! ” 

I awoke feeling very uncomfortable, and found 
that it was already day. The house was abso- 
lutely still, but I knew that our presents were 
arranged on our chairs in the dining-room. 
That had been done the night before ; so I stole 
down softly in my night-gown. My chair was 
nearest the door, and spread neatly over the 
back was — a blue cashmere frock. On the op- 
posite side of the table, at Kitty’s place, I caught 
a glimpse of the red. The tears welled up in my 
eyes. It was such a disappointment ! Mechan- 
ically I lifted it up and looked at it. It was very 
pretty — barring the color — I thought. There 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 145 

were little lace frills in the neck and sleeves, and 
it had a dainty finish about it that must have 
cost my dear mother many weary stitches. A big 
tear splashed down on the sleeve. I seized my 
napkin and rubbed the spot vigorously. I would 
have died rather than have mamma know how 
badly I felt about it. I laid it back over the 
chair with a sigh and began to look further. 
There was a beautiful green and gold copy of 
“ Ivanhoe,” with “ Merry Christmas, from 
Brother Laurence,” written in a dashing hand on 
the fly-leaf. I squeezed it to my breast. Dear 
Laurie, how I wished he were there to see how 
happy he had made me ! Then there was a 
little work-box from papa, and a card on which 
he expressed the hope that it would teach me to 
be neat and industrious. The box was very 
pretty, but the sentiment, strangely enough, 
found no echo in my breast. I don’t think I 
really wanted to be industrious, and sewing was 
not a favorite occupation with me, nor ever has 
been since. 

I could not waste time to go upstairs and 
dress. I just curled up on a lounge and was so 
absorbed in Wamba’s jesting with Gurth that I 
had to be almost forcibly recalled to a sense of 
reality when the family came down to breakfast. 
I was always thus with a book — oblivious to 
everything that was going on, 

10 


CHAPTER XXI. 


Emma’s party was not so fine and fashionable 
as the one Kitty and I had attended in Mil- 
waukee, but it gave me infinitely more pleasure. 
We did not dance so much, and we played the 
old-fashioned games with which I was familiar. 
Good-natured Cissie took me out in a secluded 
corner of the hall and taught me to waltz. She 
had never been to dancing-school either, but she 
had learned to dance, as she had learned so 
many things, half by inspiration. In fact, most 
of Cissie’s acquirements were gained outside of 
schools and had a flavor all their own. 

The other girls all said my frock was “ lovely ” 
and that I looked “ too sweet for anything.” 
This was part of our childish etiquette, and the 
stereotyped reply to such a compliment was, 
“No, / look horrid, but you look just lovely. 
This formula was repeated any number of times 
during the evening, until I grew almost tired of 
so Chinese a form of politeness. Especially did I 
weary of saying that I looked “ horrid,” for I 
became quite convinced that this was v’^ery far 
from being true, and my natural frankness 
prompted me rather to smile graciously and say. 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 147 

“Yes, don’t I ? ” with the utmost complacence. 
Fortunately, I did not commit this glaring breach 
of good manners, but kept my satisfaction to 
myself. 

Teddy was there, arrayed in his black velvet 
jacket and lace collar, very sulky, except when 
he occasionally forgot himself. His behavior 
pained and mystified me. I had hoped that he 
would think me pretty with my crimped and 
floating hair and my dainty new frock, but he 
avoided even looking at me. He wouldn’t 
dance, and he said that the games were “silly.” 
All he seemed to be thinking about was to keep 
himself and his jacket as much as possible in the 
background until supper time came. Then he 
displayed an eager interest which impressed me 
as somewhat unmannerly. 

A new boy, whom I had never met before, Joe 
Taylor by name, was very attentive to me and 
helped me quite politely at supper. He was 
even good-natured enough to bring Kitty her 
plate— a great thing for a small boy to do. I 
should have had a beautiful time, if it hadn’t 
been for Teddy. Did he think I danced too 
much with Joe Taylor, I wondered, or did he 
dislike my crimps ? I puzzled and fretted over 
his coldness until I could stand it no longer, so 
the next time I passed near him, I said, “ Hello, 
Teddy ! ” by way of bridging over the gulf. He 
responded “ Hello ! ” without even turning his 


148 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


head. Emboldened by this doubtful favor, I 
edged a litfle closer. 

“ What’s the matter, Teddy ? Are you mad 
at me ? ” ' 

“No, I ain’t ! ” snapped my friend, with half- 
averted face. “ I wish you’d leave me alone.” 

“I will — forever,” I responded tragically, as I 
turned away. My heart was breaking — there 
could be no doubt about that. It felt just like it, 
and I longed to get off by myself and cry ; but I 
remembered that the heroines in the “ Beverly 
Repository of Art and Literature,” never cried 
under such circumstances. No, they danced on, 
the gayest of the gay, disguising a breaking 
heart under a brilliant smile. Well, I had done 
with friendship, I thought. Life would never be 
the same again, though no one must suspect it. 
Joe Taylor was not a particularly interesting 
youth, but he was tall and he was quite mature ; 
he must have been as much as thirteen years 
old. So I smiled on him the rest of the evening, 
and he grew more and more attentive, until the 
other girls and boys began to tease us, and 
Elinor Harwood called me “ sugar and molasses ” 
and a variety of other derisive names. I didn’t 
mind that so much ; my grief was too great for 
me to notice such trifling annoyances, and, from 
time to time, I stole furtive glances at Teddy, 
whose face became more and more sullen. 

Joe began to be rather sentimental. He‘ 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 149 

seemed to enjoy being teased about me and sang 
“ She was the belle of the ball,” when one of the 
other boys laughed at him. I was acting very 
much like a heroine, I thought, and I had almost 
begun to enjoy my breaking heart, when my 
father came to take us home. 

Joe hung around in the hall waiting for me to 
put on my wraps. “Can’t you come out and 
skate, to-morrow,” he whispered, as we bade 
each other good-night. “ I don’t think I can live 
without seeing you again soon.” 

I wanted very much to laugh — Joe’s languish- 
ing expression was so absurd — but no, I must 
carry on my part, no one should suspect my 
breaking heart, so I promised to 'skate the next 
day, if I could get permission. 

My mother was waiting for us. It was quite 
twelve o’clock, but she sat up, as she always 
did, to hear our account of the party. Kitty 
danced in ahead of me, full of her news, and 
shouted, greatly to my discomfiture, “ Bess has 
got a beau, mamma — a great, big tall boy — ’mos’ 
grown up.’*' 

My mother gave papa a quick glance, half of 
annoyance, half of amusement. “ Where do 
they pick up such ideas ? ” she said. 

“ I guess it’s in the air, Lou,” replied my 
father, laughing. He pinched my ear a little. 
“ Let’s have no nonsense, Bess. You’re too sen- 
sible a little girl to think about beaux.” 


150 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL 

“ I hope so, papa,” I responded calmly. If they 
only knew that Joe Taylor was less than nothing 
to me ! Only the conduct of my false friend could 
have made me show him so much consideration. 

I was too tired and sleepy to be kept awake 
long by my breaking heart, but the next morn- 
ing I assured myself that it was still fractured 
and managed to squeeze out a tear or two. I 
looked discontentedly at the round and rosy 
reflection of my face. This would- never do. 
Heroines always grew pale and thin, though 
gay, witty and admired as much as ever. Some- 
times their voices would have a touch of pathos 
and their eyes a sad, far-away expression. I 
practised the expression a little as I dressed, 
though I had to own that my healthy appearance 
marred its effectiveness. 

After the small duties that my mother im- 
posed on me were done, I had made up my 
mind that I should read “ Ivanhoe ” all the 
rest of the morning. As I whisked rapidly 
about the parlor with a big feather duster, 1 
caught sight of Teddy outside. He was acting 
in so unusual a manner that my attention was 
attracted. My first impulse was to go to the 
window and make a face at him, but no heroine 
that I had read of ever did such a thing, and so 
I refrained. Instead, I watched him from behind 
the shelter of the lace curtains. He was trying 
to coast on the walk in front of our house — a 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 151 

perfectly preposterous thing to do, for there 
wasn’t the slightest slope there. He would run 
for some distance and then throw himself on the 
sled, which only ran of itself a few yards. Teddy 
couldn’t care for such tame coasting as that, I felt 
sure, and my fractured heart swelled with triumph, 
as I noted the furtive glances he cast at our win- 
dows. Teddy was sorry, Teddy was ashamed. 

I parted the curtains, and, without raising my 
eyes from my work, I carefully dusted the win- 
dow sill and the surrounding woodwork. Very 
deliberately I turned away, still without looking 
out, and, going to the other window, began to 
repeat my cleaning operations, when a crash 
against the pane and a sudden rush of cold air 
put an end to my task. Teddy had thrown one 
of those hard snowballs he knew so well how to 
manufacture. 

For an instant he stood open-mouthed, gazing 
at his work, then took to his heels with all pos- 
sible speed. My wrath was tremendous. I could 
never, never forgive him now. He had put him- 
self outside the pale. The door opened and my 
mother’s head appeared. “ What’s the matter, 
Bess ? ” she asked. " Have you broken any- 
thing ? ” 

I pointed to the broken window and the snow- 
ball on the floor. “Some — some wicked boy 
threw a snowball in here, mamma.” Even then 
I did not wish to betray my former friend, for I 


152 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

didn’t think he had quite intended to do such 
mischief. My mother’s bright face clouded, 

“ Oh, dear,” she sighed, “ Another leak ! ” 

“ I don’t think it will leak, mamma,” I said 
eagerly. I was on my knees gathering up the 
snow and pieces of glass. “We could stuff a 
newspaper in. ’Most all the windows are that 
way down at Flanagan’s, by the canal.” 

Mamma gave a little laugh. “ I didn’t mean 
that sort of a leak, Bess,” she said, “ but never 
mind. I’ll paste it up so we won’t catch cold, and 
you must put on your hood and coat and go 
after a pane and some putty. I think papa can 
put it in quite nicely.” 

I was delighted to go ; this errand would per- 
haps give me a chance to meet that young scamp, 
Teddy, and so afford an early opportunity of 
letting him know what. I thought of his conduct. 
He was nowhere to be seen, when I sallied forth, 
and I was greatly disappointed, though I could 
not but admit that, under the circumstances, he 
would scarcely care to put himself very much in 
evidence. On my way home, however, I spied 
him in the distance, his skates slung over his 
arm, on his way to the lake. “ 0 -o-o-h, Teddy ! ” 
I called, quickening my steps. He either did 
not, or pretended not to hear. Again I shouted 
— this time with such lung power that no one 
within a radius of two squares could ignore me. 
Instead of waiting for me, or turning back to 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


153 


meet me, Teddy began to run as fast as his feet 
would carry him, in the opposite direction. This 
was the last straw. I never could care for him 
after that. For weeks we did not speak at all, 
and during that period my broken heart slowly 
mended itself, so neatly that, greatly to my sur- 
prise, there was no trace of the fracture. Our 
coldness, however, gradually wore away — one 
must speak to one’s neighbors — and after the be- 
ginning of the winter term, I had been promoted 
to Teddy’s class in school. The situation was an 
impossible one, and we began to speak, at first 
rather stiffly, but that soon wore off. My boyish 
friend was so pleased to be back, as he thought, 
in my good graces, that he became actually ex- 
pansive and he confided to me that the beginning 
of all the trouble had been that some boys, who 
had seen us skating together, had teased him 
about me. This made him feel foolish and he 
thought that he would “ show ’em ” he didn’t 
care for me, after all. And it was for this mis- 
erable piece of vanity that I had lost my friend, 
for lost he remained to me. I could never bring 
myself to revive the feeling I had once had for him. 
I could not but consider how differently the chiv- 
alrous Wilfred of Ivanhoe would have demeaned 
himself. He would have been proud to wear his 
lady’s colors for all the world to see. Could I be 
satisfied with less devotion ? I asked myself, and 
answered in the same breath — “ Never !,” 


CHAPTER XXII. 


Lent had come, bringing to the “ Stars of Beth- 
lehem,” (such was the fanciful title by which our 
class was known) no particular degree of solem- 
nity. Miss Carson wore black on Sundays, how- 
ever, and at the week-day services, too. It was 
very becoming to her. It was rumored also that 
she fasted on Fridays, but this I cannot vouch 
for. There had arisen something of a coolness be- 
tween her and Arthur and they no longer shared 
the same hymn-book. No one knew the reason. 
Miss Carson seemed happy, in spite of the Lenten 
season, and she had an air of half-subdued impor- 
tance and mystery that became almost excite- 
ment as Easter approached. Arthur, however, 
wore a countenance of steady gloom most appro- 
priate to the season. I felt very sorry for him. 
It was said by some that he had proposed to our 
pretty teacher and had been refused. We small 
censors decided that, if this were the case, she 
must be a flirt, for she had certainly encouraged 
him ; we could testify to that. Arthur, who had 
been a constant attendant at the Christmas carol 
practise, never came to sing with us for the 


THE MEMOIRS OE A LITTLE GIRL. 155 

Easter carols. Miss Carson, on the contrary, 
was most assiduous in her attendance. 

When Easter Sunday came — it was an unusually 
warm day for the time of the year — I thought 
that I had never seen any one so lovely as Miss 
Carson in her new spring attire. She wore silver- 
gray, with touches of delicate pink in her hat, 
and a wreath of small pink roses under the brim, 
rested on the pale gold of her hair. Her cheeks 
were as pink as her roses, her eyes shone, and 
she smiled on us very sweetly as she marshalled 
her little flock into the church for service. I 
thought that it must make Arthur very unhappy 
to see her looking so angelic, but beyond glanc- 
ing up to say good-morning, he did not appear 
to notice her. She, on the contrary, stole fre- 
quent glances in his direction, and she seemed a 
little surprised, I thought. After the service she 
stopped and thanked us quite prettily — for singing 
so nicely, she said. She had her hand on my 
shoulder, and kept patting me and talking on 
about the service, and the carols, and the flowers 
in the church, looking about her a little restlessly. 
By and by Arthur passed us. I felt her hand 
grow unsteady ; she pressed me so close to her 
that I looked up quickly. She was not thinking 
of me, or of what she was saying. Her face 
paled a little as he passed our group with a cere- 
monious bow, and her fingers tightened. “Oh, 
Mr. Billings ! ” she called after him. 


156 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

“ Miss Carson ? ” He was standing, hat in 
hand, waiting, as though a little impatient. 

“ The children did so nicely, don’t you think ? — 
and I must tell you how good your boys have 
been at carol practice. I didn’t think — well — 
they did wonderfully without their teacher.” Her 
cheeks were not pink now, but scarlet. 

“ You are very kind. Miss Carson.” Arthur 
had an air of lofty dignity that made me long to 
give him a push or a sly pinch — anything to dis- 
turb his equilibrium. “ I trust they have not 
annoyed you in any way,” 

“ Oh, dear no, — I looked after them — ^just a 
little — because you were not with them. They’re 
such dear boys ! ” She gripped my shoulder 
very tight in her earnestness. 

“ Thank you, — you are more than kind. I am 
sure the boys appreciated your efforts. Good- 
morning, Miss Carson.” 

He was going; he did not ask to walk with her, 
as I was sure she had hoped. All her pretty 
color faded, and for a minute I thought she was 
going to cry. Then she rallied and talked to us 
brightly about a little party she was going to give 
us soon. We must cast a vote, she said, to deter- 
mine whether it should be a day in the woods to 
gather spring dowers, or an afternoon spent in 
her home playing games and dancing. 

I don’t know why, but from that day I grew 
more and more fond of my pretty teacher. I had 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 157 

always admired her ; she shone on me like some 
far-off, beautiful star ; but now I was growing to 
love her. I generally sat on her left in class. I 
began to be very punctual for fear of losing that 
place — and she used often to hold my hand 
in her little white grasp. Such a little hand it 
was ! and, as time went on, it seemed to grow even 
smaller. Her pretty rings turned loosely on her 
fingers, and it made me quite busy keeping the 
beautiful pearl and turquoises from hiding 
themselves inside of her fingers instead of staying 
where they belonged. Yes, she was losing her 
color, she was losing a little of her delicate beauty 
— that was becoming quite evident. People said 
that Eva Carson was “ fading very young.” 

If I liked Miss Carson better, I liked my old 
friend Arthur less and less. That surly dignity did 
not become him, but he kept it up, nevertheless. 
Miss Carson always spoke to him just as sweetly, 
though she never tried to draw him into conversa- 
tion again. Her eyes were piteous sometimes 
when she looked at him. Were there no more 
knights of Ivanhoe left in the world, I wondered ? 
Did the race die out in King Richard’s time ? 
Surely, Arthur was a fine fellow— Grandpapa had 
said so — and just as surely he was treating a very 
fair and sweet lady in a most discourteous man- 
ner. 

After mature deliberation, we chose a day in 
the woods for our party. It was in early spring 


158 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

and we longed to be out among the budding 
trees and to wander by a certain pebbly and 
noisy brook that the other girls had often visited. 
A stage took us to the outskirts of the town where 
“ Carson’s Woods ” began — the tract belonged to 
Miss Eva’s father and was always so styled — and 
then it was over the fence and hey for a run on the 
green moss starred with violets, blue and white, 
and dainty anemones. Our teacher spread a 
shawl on the grass under a tree and sat down, say- 
ing that she would read and wait for us there. She 
felt a little too tired to gather flowers just yet, she 
said, and indeed she looked so. 

When I had picked a big bunch of flowers, I 
remembered her, and it seemed as though it was 
not quite nice for us all to go so far away ; so I 
stole back. She was sitting just as we had left 
her, with her fair head resting against the trunk 
of a tree and her book lying unopened in her lap. 
She looked so white, so transparent, so apgelic, 
I thought, and her eyes turned a large startled 
glance towards me as I approached. I brought 
my bouquet as an offering. She acccepted it 
graciously and, making room beside her, she 
asked me to sit down. At first we did not con- 
verse much, then she began to ask me questions 
about my Western home. I talked on eagerly 
and was in the midst of a recital of the delights 
of my grandfather’s farm when she interrupted 
me. 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 159 

“Was it there that you met Mr. Billings, 
Bessie ? ” 

So I told hor all about it. My mother had said 
to me that I must not tell Northport people about 
Arthur’s visit and how it came about, so I first 
swore Miss Carson to secrecy. She sighed and 
smiled a little, assuring me that she would be 
the last one to talk about the subject. After I 
had finished she was silent for a time, stroking my 
hand, as she often did. 

“ He was — very nice to you and your little 
sister, then ? ” she asked at length. 

“ Ever so nice,” I replied heartily. “ I don’t 
mind telling you. Miss Carson,” I went on con- 
fidentially, “ but we don’t like him half so well as 
we used to. He’s so — so prUnpy and stiff.” 

Miss Eva laughed softly. “ Always, Bessie ? ” 

“ Well, not when he comes to our house.” I 
had to own. “ He plays with us and is just as 
funny, but I don’t like him at church any more. 
I guess religion has a bad effect on him,” I opined 
sagely. 

“ We used to be quite friends,” said my teacher, 
still patting the hand she held, “ but we’re — not — 
any more. It isn’t my fault, Bessie — at least — I 
think I was right — it didn’t seem as if a church- 
woman ought to ” 

She paused. I looked up and saw that her face 
was working convulsively and the tears had be- 
gun to run down her pale cheeks. The sight of 


i6o THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


her grief cut me to the heart and such a big 
lump came in my throat that I couldn’t say any- 
thing. For a moment I looked the other way 
and blinked my eyes to keep the tears back, and 
I squeezed Miss Carson’s hand very hard. 

“ You’re such a wise little thing, Bessie, or I 
wouldn’t talk to you like this,” she went on 
presently. “ It seems as though I must tell some 
one. I’ve such an ache here all the time,” — she 
pressed her hand against her breast. “ We were 
great friends, you know, and everything went 
well till, — well, it was the very first week in Lent 
that it happened, He was walking home with 
me from vespers and all at once he began to talk 
so — so differently from usual. And I let him go 
on, at first not seeing that he was going ” 

“To propose,” I added, as she paused. 

Miss Carson looked astonished, “ Why, how 
did you know, you little witch ? ” she asked. 

“ Why, every one thinks that,” I said. “ They 
all say that he proposed and you refused him.” 

“ Well — I didn’t — no, I really didn’t, Bessie. I 
told him that I couldn’t listen to him then. That 
when Easter came, he might speak about it, and 
he grew angry and said that I cared more for the 
Church than for him and that I must choose be- 
tween him and the Church. I thought I was right 
— doesn’t it seem so, Bessie ? — We are told that 
in commemoration we must give up feasting and 
merry-making. It was my Lenten sacrifice, and 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. i6i 


it has broken my heart. I thought he wouldn’t 
stay angry, that he would come to me with 
the Easter lilies. Well, that is all over, and I 
can’t bear it long. I’ll not be here another Easter, 
Bessie.” 

We put our arms around each other and cried 
together, silently. The poor little frail figure 
seemed so small as, shaken by sobs, it leaned 
against mine. A passion of grief and pity swept 
over my soul, a determination to help this gentle 
creature who was dying for her love. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


The sun was high in the heavens. We heard 
the shouts of the rest of the party as they strayed 
back in our direction, beginning to remember 
that the dinner hour was approaching and that 
we had a well-filled luncheon basket to explore. 

“ Let us go down to the brook, Bessie, and 
bathe our faces,” said Miss Carson, rising to her 
feet. " They must not think that we have been 
crying. And Bessie, dear, you must make me 
a promise. Never, never tell anyone of this.” 

“ Oh, must I, Miss Carson ? ” All my beauti- 
ful plans were spoiled, my air castle was in ruins. 
“ Please don’t make me promise.” 

“ Indeed you must, dear,” she replied firmly. 
" I should die of shame — I couldn’t have anyone 
know of it. You shall be my little confidante. 
You must come often to see me and we shall be 
great friends, but — not a word of this to any- 
one.” 

I gave the required promise and she seemed 
satisfied. 

The hamper was filled with all sorts of good 
things and ample justice was done to them. I 
didn’t enjoy them so much as the others, though. 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 163 

My pleasure was marred by the thought that my 
beautiful Miss Eva was in trouble and that I could 
not aid her — she had put it out of my power by 
insisting on that promise. People were always 
swearing me to secrecy, I thought , discontentedly, 
though 1 really ought not to compare her to the 
burglar, I supposed. It would have been a very 
simple matter to tell Arthur of our conversation. 
He was not really cruel and he would have been 
sorry and everything would have gone well. But 
now how was I to help matters ? Well, I must 
think out a way, and soon, too. 

At sundown I reached home, tired and sun- 
burned — my hands filled with wilted wild flowers 
and my brain in a whirl with the importance of my 
new discovery. By a strange coincidence I found 
Arthur Billings there. He had stopped in and 
had been asked to stay to tea, as he often was. 

What an opportunity it might have been, I 
thought. 

” Well, here’s my little sweetheart Bess,” he 
exclaimed as I came in. “Got a kiss for me, 
Bess ? ” 

“ No,” I replied with some dignity. “ I don’t 
care to kiss you, but I’ll shake hands. I ad- 
vanced and went through that performance with 
very little cordiality, it must be owned. 

“ Why this coldness ? ” asked Arthur in mock 
doleful tones. “What has your humble slave 
done to offend ? ” 


1 64 the memoirs of a little girl . 


“ Don’t be silly ! ” I replied, trying to with- 
draw my hand from his. How could he joke and 
be funny when that lovely girl’s heart was break- 
ing ? 

“ Whisper it in my ear, Bess. Tell me what 
I’ve done and whatever it is, you cruel lair one, 
I’ll instantly undo it.” 

I leaned close to his shoulder and whispered, 
“ It is because are cruel.” 

Arthur’s face expressed nothing but surprise 
and amusement. “ I give you my word, Bess, 
that I am soft-hearted to a fault. Who has 
maligned me ? ” 

“ I don’t know what you mean with your long 
words,” I replied crossly. " But you’ve made 
some one — some one that’s sweet and good and 
a friend of yours — very unhappy and I think it’s 
horrid of you.” 

Arthur’s expression grew sombre at once. He 
understood me, I saw, although he affected not 
to do so. “You speak in riddles. May I not 
hear in plain English the cause of my fall from 
favor ? ” 

That was exactly what I could not do and I 
doubted, from his manner, whether it would be 
of use, anyway. How stubborn he was ! Grand- 
papa had noticed that, but he said that he had 
the making of a fine man, too. 

My mother called to us to stop quarrelling and 
come to tea, and Arthur did not again give me 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 165 

an opportunity to speak on the subject. He 
understood me well enough, and I thought that 
now perhaps he would be sorry and all would 
come a-right. 

I did not see either Miss Carson or Arthur 
again until Sunday, but when I did, it needed 
only a glance to see that nothing was changed. 
He was still distant, she more drooping than 
ever. She had caught cold sitting on the grass 
in the woods, she told us, and thus explained her 
■pallor and listlessness. During the week I went 
to see her, as she had asked me to do. It was 
late one afternoon and I was on my way from 
school. The servant who opened the door told 
me that she was ill and I waited, with fast-beating 
heart, to learn if she would see me. 

“You can come into the library, please.” 

I followed the maid to a very large, handsome 
room lined with books and family portraits. Al- 
though it was well on in May and a warm after- 
noon, a wood fire burned in the grate and very 
near it, with her slender hand held out to catch 
the warmth, was Miss Carson. She was lying in a 
reclining chair, dressed in a white wrapper with 
a great deal of delicate lace about her neck and 
wrists. She had grown startlingly thin in the 
few days since I had last seen her, and her eyes 
looked strangely large and bright. 

“ You dear child, how good of you to come ! ” 
she said, giving me her cheek to kiss. “ I’ve 


1 66 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


such a wretched cold, and I was lying here wish- 
ing that some one I like would come in. Bring a 
chair to the fire. I can’t think why it stays so 
cold.” 

“ It’s ever so warm, Miss Carson,” I said 
bluntly. “ I guess I’ll just stay over here by the 
table.” 

“ Is it warm ? I’m so cold,” she gave a little 
shiver, “i haven’t been well since our outing a 
week ago.” 

“ Oh, Miss Carson, I wish you’d let me tell ! ” 
I burst out irrelevantly. But she understood 
me at once and a scarlet flush colored her cheeks. 

“ No, Bessie, never ; how can you think I would 
permit it ? ” 

“Well, he asked me and I couldn’t tell any- 
thing, and if I could, it might have been all right 
again.” 

She raised up eagerly in her chair. “ Asked 
about me, Bessie ? ” she queried. “ What did he 
say ? ” 

“ N — o, he didn’t ask about you exactly, but 
he asked me why I didn’t like him any more.” 

Miss Carson smiled. She had settled back 
again in her half reclining attitude. “ And you 
told him ? ” 

“ That I didn’t like him because he was cruel — 
there ! ” 

“ Oh, Bessie, never say anything like that again. 
If he thought that I had told you — well, some 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 167 

day it won’t matter to me any more and then, 
then you may tell him. Tell him, Bessie, that I 
thought I was doing right, and that I never 
meant to make him suffer — as — he has made me.” 
Her voice broke and she was silent. 

I knew that she was thinking of death. Death ! 
It gave me such a shuddering and I, too, drew 
near the fire. Oh, the pity of it ! This pretty, 
tender creature that had never harjried a living 
thing, was going down into the cold, dark grave, 
and the only hand that could pluck her back 
was stubbornly withheld. It could not be — and 
yet — it must be. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


Laurie was with us again, more than ever our 
big brother, so changed, so mature, so dignified. 
He was a pjmblisher himself now — the youngest 
publisher in Chicago. Kitty and I were very 
proud of him. We liked to persuade him to take 
long walks with us — just to show him off to the 
admiring town. We were certain that every one 
must admire him. I thought him quite the hand- 
somest man I had ever seen. That was many 
years ago, and, indeed, I think so still. The gray 
threads are beginning to streak my hair now, and 
soon I shall be as old as he ever was, once so 
old, so wise in my reverent eyes. The rest of us 
change, but he remains the same, unchanged and 
unchanging in the beautiful, eternal youth of one 
whom Death has early gathered. But that was 
years after. 

The story of his struggles and of his success, 
problematic though it was still, was a topic of 
which we never wearied. I hung upon his words, 
and when his brief visit was ended and he was 
gone, he left a void too great to be filled. Every- 
thing else seemed so tame and spiritless after 
Laurie. I felt impatient with people who were 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 169 

neither handsome nor brilliant. What right had 
they to cumber the earth ? 

I had almost forgotten Miss Carson while my 
brother was with us, but, on the day he left, some 
one told me that she was very ill. The time had 
come for me to act. I went to see her only to 
learn that she was too ill to see any one. I had 
neglected her. I had forgotten my duty and now 
she was ill, dying. I sat down for an instant on 
the doorstep after the door had closed. I wanted 
to think it out. I remembered my mother’s 
saying that “A bad promise is better broken than 
kept.” I would break it then — blame me who 
would. 

It was very late in the afternoon when I reached 
the Billings’ home. Mrs. Billings herself opened 
the door to my ring (it was often done in the old 
days at Northport), and she eyed me with some 
astonishment and, I thought, suspicion, when I 
asked to see Arthur. Arthur was dressing for 
supper, she thought. I told her, quite boldly, that 
I must see him — it was very important, I had 
been thinking all the way of the fine things I was 
to say to him, how I was to rebuke him, to rouse 
his conscience, but I forgot it all when he came 
into the room where I awaited him, and, after a 
word or two, I burst into tears like the foolish little 
girl that I was. He caught my errand from my 
first words, and his face grew pale and set, but 
when 1 faltered out it all — the whole story of the 


lyo the memoirs OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

poor girl’s confidence, even to her last message 
to him — he gasped “ God forgive me ! ” and was 
gone. He rushed from the house and I followed. 
I did not care for another interview with his 
stepmother, and, besides, my errand was done. 

I was dreadfully downhearted that evening. 
Miss Carson was dying, Laurie was gone. I was 
even sad on Arthur’s account, although I could 
but own that he didn’t deserve it. He must he 
suffering dreadfully though, I thought, and the 
whole world seemed to me a dreary waste. 
Even the fact that it was a beautiful evening in 
early June seemed rather to accentuate the hol- 
lowness of everything. If I could only find a 
good place to go off and cry in ! Once I should 
have sought the old stable, but I had never cared 
about lurking thereabouts late in the day since 
my encounter with Fancher. After supper I 
went out with the others to sit on the front steps. 
Everyone sat on the front steps on pleasant sum- 
mer evenings in Northport. While the ladies of 
the family exchanged compliments and pieces of 
news with the ladies on the neighboring front 
steps, and the children played tag on the side- 
walk, the head of the family, or the oldest boy (if 
he were sufficiently grown to be trusted with 
such a task), attached a long hose to the hydrant 
in front and sprinkled the roadway and the little 
border of lawn. 

On that evening in June, Mrs, Langdon came 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 1 7 i 

over to our steps, and the news that she was tell- 
ing my mother seemed ‘so interesting that Mrs. 
Tuttle, the neighbor from the other side, joined 
them. We were told to go and play. “ Just as 
if I cared to listen ! ” I thought, indignantly, and 
I strolled off down the street. I was too tired 
and too miserable to play tag. What did it 
matter that Mrs. Langdon “had it ” from Mrs. 
Rawson, who “ had it ” from some one else who 
was there — right on the spot ? I shouldn’t have 
really tried to listen, and they might have let me 
stay and rest my weary legs. Grown j)eople just 
thought that children could always play and 
never get tired. By this time I had reached 
the Hankinsons’ house. Mrs. Hankinson was 
not at home — she rarely was at home, being 
generally at church, or a sewing society, or a 
tea, or a sociable, or a fair, or, at any rate, visit- 
ing some one — and that was one reason which 
made their house such a desirable house to play 
in. Another reason was that it was very large 
and rambling, and that we did not have to be 
careful about “ mussing things up,” for they 
were already in that condition. The girls of my 
set were nearly all there, and they were playing 
a most interesting game. It consisted of tying a 
handkerchief to a string, putting it in a conspicu- 
ous place on the sidewalk and then jerking it 
suddenly back when the unwary passer-by 
stooped to pick it up. It was such fun that I 


172 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

forgot my woes and laughed until my sides 
ached. We never should have got tired of it if 
one of the Flanagans, who lived by the canal, 
had not come by. He took the precaution to 
plant his foot firmly on the handkerchief, so that 
when we jerked, the string broke and Master 
Flanagan went off with the handkerchief. It 
was Cissie’s handkerchief, with a “ real em- 
broidery initial ” as she regretfully remarked, 
and she didn’t care to play that game any more. 
It had rather taken the spirit out of the jest, 
any way, having the laugh transferred to the 
wrong side. 

Then a bright idea struck Elinor Harwood. 
“ Let’s dress up in our mothers’ clothes and go 
visiting.” 

“ Oh, let’s,” I cried, “ And then let’s go down 
to the Flanagans’ and pretend we’re our mothers, 
and make Tom Flanagan give up that handker- 
chief.” 

This plan was received with delight, only we 
decided that it would take too long to go to our 
respective homes for costumes, so, instead, we 
would all dress up in Mrs. Hankinson’s gowns. 
Fortunately for her wardrobe, that lady was 
wearing her best gown and bonnet, so that much 
escaped. Cissie, as I have said before, was a 
very mature-looking girl for her age. She was 
already quite as tall as her mother, and re- 
sembled her so closely that, when dressed in a 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 173 

long black silk dress, with a bonnet and veil on, 
she might easily have passed for her. The rest 
of us were smaller — I was only eleven and small 
even for that age, — but we thought that, with 
Cissie in front, we might make a very good 
showing, especially as it was growing quite dark. 

The Flanagans were ne’er-do-wells — most of 
them. The old woman took in w'ashing and 
went out by the day to clean, the old man got 
drunk every day of his life, but was generally 
peaceable and quiet in his cups, therefore spent 
not more than three fourths of his time in the 
lockup or working with the chain gang on the 
streets. The eldest son was rarely at home. He 
had cut a man in a fight and had served a term 
in prison for the offense. He was also suspected 
of having been in league with a gang of burglars, 
but this had never been proved. However, he 
was apt to be from home most of the time on 
errands more or less mysterious. Then there 
were two grown daughters, saucy, slatternly, 
pretty girls, who occasionally worked in the mills, 
but for the most part lived on the money their 
old mother made at washing. Then came Tom, 
the present possessor of Cissie’s handkerchief, an 
immature rowdy of fifteen or sixteen and, besides 
that, a host of smaller Flanagans. 

After we had started, we began to realize that 
it was an undertaking requiring a good deal of 
courage to call at the Flanagans’ in the evening, 


174 the memoirs of a little girl . 

but I bolstered up Cissie’s failing spirit by assur- 
ing her that the old man would be sure to be 
asleep and that Jim Flanagan, the eldest son, 
had not been at home for a long time. 

The Flanagan homestead stood close to the 
canal which ran through Northport. It was a 
large, tumble-down building originally intended 
to hold two families, but no one else had cared 
to share the domicile with the Flanagans and 
they had it all to themselves. They had only to 
take out the rags and newspaper with which 
most of the empty panes were stuffed in winter, 
to assure ventilation in plenty in the summer, 
and through the openings floated the voice of old 
Mrs. Flanagan, in dreary monotone. A single 
candle threw so feeble a light, that, peep as we 
would, we could see no one else in the room. 

“ Talking to herself ! ” whispered Carrie Crane 
with a giggle. We hadn’t wanted to bring 
Carrie along. She was so very small and she 
limped. No one could mistake her. None of 
us, however, had the heart to tell her so, and she 
thought herself as well disguised as the rest of us. 

“ Sh ! ” commanded Cissie, from the doorstep. 
She gave a tremendous knock that brought forth 
no response save a smothered exclamation from 
within and a faint giggle or two from our little 
group behind her. She knocked again. This 
time the door opened very cautiously and Mrs. 
Flanagan’s head appeared in a narrow opening. 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


175 

“ Good-evening, Mrs. Flanagan,” said Cissie 
in rather an artificial voice. 

“ Good-evenin’, Mrs. Hankinson,” was the 
reply, followed by a chorus of faint giggles from 
us. Cissie turned around and shook her head 
savagely. 

“ Mrs. Flanagan, I’ve come after my daughter’s 
handkerchief.” 

“ Handkerchief, is it ? It’s yerself knows if 
I have a chance to take a handkerchief if I wud, 
and it’s yerself knows I wouldn’t take it if I cud. 
Wid you a-standing over me wash-tub an’ coun- 
tin’ ivery pace thot’s put in an’ ivery pace thot’s 
tuk out. I’d loike to know if ye think it’s pos- 
sible, Mrs. Hankinson. An’ whot’s more. I’ll have 
the law of anny one thot ses I tuk annythin’. A 
pore, dacent. God-fearin’, law-abidin’ woman 
a-tryin’ her bist t’ arn a livin’ an’ thin t’ have ye 
spakin’ like that.” Mrs. Flanagan had grown so 
interested that by this time she had flung the 
door wide open and was standing, arms akimbo, 
on the sill. Back in the room we could dimly 
seethe outlines of other figures. We were chok- 
ing with laughter, pushing and nudging each 
other. This was even better fun than we had 
anticipated. “ If I had a mon thot was any good 
in the wurld,” pursued Mrs. Flanagan louder 
and louder, “it’s himsilf thot wudn’t sit by an’ 
hear his wife insulted an’ blagguarded an’ if I had 
sons that wuz any hilp to their poor ould mither 


176 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

I wudn’t be washin’ fer the loikes of ye, thot I 
wudn’t. 

“ You are — you are — ’way off, Mrs. Flanagan,” 
retorted Cissie, with more dignity of manner than 
expression. “It’s your son Tom has got my 
handkerchief, and I want it — I mean my daughter 
Cecilia’s handkerchief.”* 

Mrs. Flanagan had been eying our group sus- 
piciously and with that, she made a dive for the 
nearest person, Carrie Crane. She missed poor 
Carrie, who dodged the attack, but reaching for 
a convenient broom, she sallied forth upon us 
shouting as she went. “ Be off wid ye — here 
Tom, Jim, Jinnie, come here and ketch these 
young ones an’ give ’em a good bastin’.” 

Our valiant group scattered and we fled wildly 
in opposite directions. I ran along the canal tow- 
path with my black gown held up in both hands 
and my bonnet dangling on my back. Footsteps 
were pursuing me. I ran faster and faster till 
my foot caught in a flounce of that unlucky dress 
and I fell headlong, with a wild cry, into the dark 
waters of the canal. As I struck the surface with 
a loud splash, my cry was repeated from the bank. 
Buoyed up by my long clothes, I did not im- 
mediately sink, and I could see on the tow-path, 
the figure of one of my companions. It was she 
from whom I had been running, and it was she 
whose voice now re-echoed my shrieks. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


“ Oh, Bessie’s drowned, Bessie’s drowned,” 
wailed Cissie, for it was she who stood watching 
my struggles. “ Oh, Mr. Flanagan, we didn’t 
mean any harm, jump in and save her.” 
A dark figure appeared beside her, tearing off 
its coat and kicking off its shoes. I saw it for 
an instant poised on the brink, then, for the first 
time, my head went under, a horrid gurgling was 
in my ears and my mouth, wide open for another 
scream, was filled with the filthy waters of the 
canal. I went down, down, down — fighting and 
struggling until a hand seized mine and I was 
drawn slowly, very slowly it seemed, to the sur- 
face. Once more I saw the sky, the banks of the 
canal. I must not go down again into those 
black depths, and I threw both arms about the 
neck of my rescuer, who began to swear horribly. 

“ Here, chuck me a rope ! ” he shouted. 
Again we went under. I made a despairing 
effort to cling to the form that seemed now to be 
trying to push me away. Then I lost conscious- 
ness for an instant, When I came to myself, I 
was still in the water, held at arm’s length from 
12 


178 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

my preserver, who paddled a little with his dis- 
engaged hand while he still called for a rope. 

The Flanagans were out in full force by this 
time, and other people were joining them, run- 
ning from every direction. A rope was thrown 
us, and I and my rescuer, who seemed now 
almost too weak to cling to it, were drawn slowly 
out of the canal. Some one caught him by the 
hand and called him a brave fellow, though he 
tried to shake himself loose, and the others sur- 
rounded us. For the first time, by the light of 
the flickering lanterns, we saw each plainly and 
both of us started back. “ The kid ! ” exclaimed 
the hero. I said nothing, but I knew his face at 
once. It was the face of my burglar. 

“ Here, lemme out o’ this,” he said. “ D’ ye 
want me to ketch my death ? ” 

Instantly the rope was thrown over his head 
and drawn tightly about him, pinning his arms 
to his sides. 

“ No, ye don’t, Mr. Fancher ! ” said Jim Flan- 
agan, the holder of the rope. “ Ye’re worth too 
much money ter be let go.” 

There was a fierce struggle, the sounds of 
blows and of hoarse oaths that came through 
clenched teeth. In a few minutes it was over, 
and Fancher lay quiet, securely bound, panting 
and glaring like a wild animal caught in a trap. 
Over him stood Jim Flanagan, shrilly invoking 
the testimony of those about, that he and he alone 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 179 

had caught the man for whom a reward was of- 
fered. No one noticed me ; I was completely 
overlooked in this new excitement. Painfully 
and clumsily I dragged myself to my feet — a most 
absurd little figure in my long bedraggled skirts. 
I pushed them aside till I was quite close to him. 

“I never told on you, Mr. Fancher,” I said 
earnestly. “ Really and truly I never did, and 
I’m very much obliged to you for saving my life.” 

The trapped burglar said nothing. He only 
glared and panted. 

“ Oh, you must believe me ! ” I exclaimed, 
wringing my hands in my excitement. “Every 
one of these people will tell you that I never 
breathed a word.” 

Fancher grinned a horrid grin, “ Stow that, 
kiddy. You’re square, I guess.” 

Some one who knew me got me by the hand 
and drew me away. I was conveyed home as 
quickly as possible and my punishment began in 
the shape of hot blankets and ginger tea — the 
night was very warm. My mother seemed hardly 
to know whether to weep for joy over my escape 
or for shame that I had been so mischievous. 
She finally seemed to make up her mind to enjoy 
my present safety and to reserve for the future 
the lecture that she knew it was her bounden 
duty to give me. It was very warm, I thought, 
as I lay, perspiring in state, in our spare bed, 
but I had a mind comparatively at rest. I say 


i8o THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


comparatively, for what was the ruin of Mrs. 
Hankinson’s second or third best gown and last 
winter’s bonnet in comparison to the two secrets 
I had carried with me so long. And in one day 
I had rid myself of both of them. I had told 
Arthur, and the burglar was once more under 
lock and key. 

As sleep stole over me, I wondered vaguely if 
Miss Carson would scold and if the sheriff would 
lock me up for aiding Fancher, and then — I was 
so weary that it didn’t seem as though anything 
mattered very much and I floated off — after 
several convulsive starts and wild jumps down 
imaginary canal banks — into dreamland. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


The hrst objects that greeted my eyes the next 
morning were Mrs. Hankinson’s gown and hat, 
dried indeed, but looking sadly the worse for 
their experience. I think my mother must have 
laid them over a chair at the foot of my bed to 
give me a realizing sense of the damage I had 
thoughtlessly done. My head felt very dizzy as 
I sat up, the better to contemplate those ruins. 
They were hopelessly battered, it seemed to me, 
and, no doubt, I was the only girl who had really 
spoiled any of Mrs. Hankinson’s wardrobe. 
Just my luck ! It was as Cousin Alice had told 
me ; I always managed to make myself con- 
spicuous when I engaged in any pranks. Prob- 
ably none of those girls would ever ask me to 
join them in any such undertaking again. Per- 
haps it was better so, and I should then be out 
of the way of temptation, but it wouldn’t be 
pleasant to feel myself left out of all the fun. 

The door opened cautiously and my mother 
peeped in. “Oh, you are awake, then,” she 
said brightly. “ Honora is bringing up your 
breakfast. Do you know that it is quite ten 
o’clock ? ” 


1 82 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


Mamma sat down on the side of the bed and 
watched me as I silently ate my meal. I felt 
that she was thinking up what she was going to 
say to me after I .had finished. Eating very 
slowly, I tried to make up satisfactory replies to 
the questions and the accusations I imagined 
that I should have to face. After I had deliber- 
ately finished the last crumb, mamma and I sat 
for a minute looking at each other, then she said, 
very seriously : “ Have you anything to say to 
me, Bessie ? ” 

I had so much that I hardly knew where to 
begin and so I told her, “ It goes ’way back, 
mamma, ever so far. My head aches so I don’t 
know how I shall ever tell it all in one day.” 

“ Supposing that I help you a little ? Who do 
you think has been here this morning to see your 
father about you ? ” 

I felt my face growing red. “ Mr. Hankin- 
son ? ” I hazarded. Mamma shook her head. 
“ Any of the Carsons ? ” 

“ Why, what have you been doing to the Car- 
sons, Bess ? I hope that there hasn’t been anything 
more going on than I already know of? No, my 
child, Mr. Allen — Mr. Theodore Allen, has been 
here to talk about you. Do you know who he 
is ?” 

“ A — a law}^er,” I faltered. 

“ He is the District Attorney, and he came to 
ask your father to produce you in court as a wit- 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 183 

ness against this man Fancher, when his trial 
comes on.” 

I gasped hysterically : “Oh, mamma, mamma, 
will they put me in prison ? Oh, if he had 
only stayed away no one would ever have 
known ! ” Disjointedly, and bit by bit, I told my 
mother the whole story, beginning with my first 
meeting with Fancher and ending with my rescue 
by him the night before. Her troubled face 
gradually cleared as she listened and, after it 
was all over, and she put her arms about me, I 
wept away some of the heartache that had so 
long oppressed me. 

“You can’t imagine how relieved I am, my 
child,” she said presently. “ I did not know what 
to think when I was told that you had some con- 
nection with the escape of this man. No one can 
really blame you, be assured of that. It was only 
a mistake in judgment which some day I will ex- 
plain to you. Of course your appearing in court 
will be very unpleasant and the notoriety of it all 
will be painful to us, but that is the worst. In 
this case, however mistaken you were, you did 
what you thought was right. I wonder if you 
could say the same of your conduct last night ? ” 

“I didn’t think at all,” I confessed. 

My mother smiled. “ Well, that is honest, at 
least.” 

“ Oh, mamma, do let’s talk about something 
else, just for a little while,” I entreated. “ I’m 


i 84 the memoirs of A LITTLE GIRL. 


so tired of being miserable. IVe had so much 
trouble lately. First Laurie went away and then 
Miss Carson’s so awfully sick, and then the bur- 
glar and Mrs. Hankinson’s dress.” 

“ What a catalogue of woes ! ” laughed my 
mother. “ I have seen older people than you 
who got tired of being miserable, It is tiresome, 
but it seems to be part of living.” 

“ Well, anyhow, grown people don’t have so 
much trouble. If they do anything like that no- 
body says a word to them.” 

“ What, if a grown woman were to go to an- 
other woman’s house and without leave or knowl- 
edge of the owner take her clothes and wear 
them and spoil them, do you think that no one 
would say or do anything about it ? ” 

“ Don’t, don't, mamma ! ” I writhed before the 
contemplation of the picture thus held up to me. 
“ The way you say it makes me feel just as if I 
was as bad as Mr. Fancher, and it wasn’t really 
like that at all. Cissie was there, and she told 
us to.” 

“In that case, I suppose if Fancher can prove 
that some one told him to take Judge Sturgis’s 
silver, it will be all right.” 

Overwhelmed by my mother’s pitiless rea- 
soning, I could only shed tears and exclaim that, 
in her place, I shouldn’t try to make my child feel 
so wicked. This was apparently exactly what 
she did want to do, however, and, the result 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 185 

being accomplished, she went on to give me 
some gleams of hope for the future. After hav- 
ing, so far as possible, restored Mrs. Hankin- 
son’s gown to its former state, we were to call 
upon that lady and confess and apologize. If 
she would allow us to get another hat in place of 
the one that had been spoiled, it should be done, 
and my pocket money withheld until it was paid 
for. I didn’t care so much about anything as I 
did about the interview with her. That was in- 
deed a punishment ! However I found her very 
good-natured, and she laughed over the picture 
we had made until the tears stood in her eyes. 
Her enjoyment of the situation, and her intense 
curiosity to find out all about Fancher, made 
my misdeeds seem less heinous in my own eyes, 
though my mother rather deprecated such a view 
of the situation. Mrs. Hankinson would not 
listen to our proposition to replace the hat. It 
was a last winter’s hat, and a cheap one at that, 
she said, and even now it would do quite nicely 
to give to poor old Mrs. Flanagan. 

“ She is a very comforting lady,” I said to my 
mother as, we walked home. 

“ She is very polite and kind, Bessie. She 
made light of the matter in order to spare our 
feelings, I suspect,” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


Fortunately for my mother’s peace of mind, 
Northport had a new sensation, and I and my 
burglar were, for the time, somewhat forgotten. 
This latest subject for speculation and comment 
was the marriage of Eva Carson and Arthur Bil- 
lings. They were married on the very day after 
I had sought Arthur and told him what I had 
learned, she lying on her death-bed, as it was 
thought. He wished to be near her, to have the 
right to be constantly at her side, and she seemed 
happy in the thought that, though dying, she 
would be his. Under such circumstances, the 
objections that would otherwise have been urged 
were forgotten, and the girl of eighteen and the 
boy of twenty were united. All sorts of wild 
stories were afloat concerning this romantic 
wedding. One (to which fact that Mrs. Arthur 
began slowly to recover gave some color) was 
that she had been secretly pining for love of him, 
and that finally, being on the point of death, she 
had confessed to her father that she was dying of 
an unrequited attachment, and that Mr. Carson 
had at once sent for Arthur and begged him to 
marry his daughter in order to save her life. 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 187 

Arthur and his bride's family were kept busy for 
a time in giving to every one the real version of 
the story. 

As soon as Mrs. Arthur was convalescent, 
which was some weeks after, she sent for me to go 
to see her. I thought that she would be lenient 
with me, and would not say very much about the 
promises that I had made her, and this turned 
out to be the case. She was very happy, she 
told me, and she had not forgotten nor never 
could forget that I had been her confidante in 
her troubles. 

“ Arthur — Mr. Billings was not to blame, 
though,” she added, with a pretty little blush. 
“ He really thought that I did not care for him, 
and, of course, he had too much delicacy to urge 
me. It was impossible for me to bring up the 
subject again myself, and so we both had all that 
misery to endure.” 

I privately thought that Arthur was very much 
to blame, but fortunately I had tact enough not 
to tell her that I considered that her husband’s 
pride and stubbornness had made most of the 
trouble. 

“ We are too young, I know,” she went on, 
“ but we’ll grow up together, and Mr. Billings is 
studying very hard to be admitted to the bar. ’ 

Arthur’s studies must at that time have been 
most arduous. After breakfast, on his way 
down town, he stopped in just a minute at the 


i88 the memoirs of a little girl. 


Carsons’ to see how Mrs. Arthur was feeling. 
The minute lengthened out into an hour — some- 
times two. At noon he went in to leave her a 
few flowers, or the latest book or magazine, was 
invited to dine, and generally accepted. He 
would not hurt the feelings of his parents-in-law 
by hurrying away immediately after the meal, 
and so remained a polite length of time after- 
wards. He was expected to take tea there every 
evening, and as Mrs, Arthur was still too weak to 
sit up late in the evening, he went to the house 
some time before the supper hour. Then, of 
course, when she was allowed to drive, Arthur 
must accompany her. If he really did study in 
those days, he must have done it when all the 
rest of the world was asleep. 

Our Sunday-school class, with a substitute 
teacher, was far less interesting than when pretty 
Miss Eva had guided us along the right path. I 
developed a remarkable tendency to have head- 
aches and toothaches on Sunday, which got better 
in the afternoon and had quite disappeared on 
Monday mornings, only to re-appear in more dis- 
tressing form on the following Sunday. After a 
time, however, my mother began to disregard, in 
the most unfeeling manner, these distressing 
symptoms, and I had to do my duty in spite of 
my sufferings. I took little pride in learning my 
lessons — indeed none of us cared much about our 
scholarship, those hot July Sundays and there 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 189 

was only enough religion left in our souls to ap- 
preciate a Sunday-school picnic. This festivity, 
relieved the monotony of the summer in a most 
unexpected way. It began just like any other 
Sunday-school picnic. Laden with a contribu- 
tion towards the refreshments, we all met at a 
certain steamboat dock, embarked on a large 
boat, and, in an hour’s time, found ourselves 
at the picnic grounds — a beautiful spot on the 
lake shore. Here were boats, swings, croquet 
grounds, green woods in which to wander, and 
a hard sandy beach where the heavy waves were 
rolling in. We forgot the heat and ran about 
trying to enjoy everything at once. We took off 
our shoes and stockings and waded in the shallows 
near the shore, running with wild shrieks when a 
big wave splashed us. It would have remained 
in my memory as a day altogether delightful, 
had it not been for an unlucky idea of Cissie 
Hankinson’s, 

“ Let’s play shipwreck,” said Cissie. 

“Oh, yes, let’s be Robinson Crusoe,” added 
Emma Fantucci. If we could only find a desert 
island to be wrecked on, it would be fun.” 

I remembered that there was an island some 
four or five miles distant from the coast. “ Don’t 
you remember when we drew the map, it was 
just a little teeny dot quite near the shore ? ” 

“ But we don’t know which way to row,” ob- 
jected Elinor Hardwood. 


190 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

“ Right straight out, you goosie. We couldn’t 
miss it. Come on, girls, or we won’t get back in 
time for dinner. And Cissy, playing the part 
of commanding officer, marshalled us into a 
boat. How we ever got away without being ob- 
served, although the boats were at some little 
distance from the main pier, I don’t know. Get 
away we did^ and borne by a favoring wind and 
current, we were only a black speck in the dis- 
tance, by the time it occurred to our friends to 
look for us. 

It must have been very tantalizing to the hungry 
picknickers to leave those well filled tables before 
the feast had even commenced in order to look 
for us — “the worst young ones in town,” as one 
old lady characterized us, right in the hearing of 
our distracted mothers. She said that she knew 
we were hiding about somewhere just to make 
an excitement, and that she for one, was not going 
to ruin her digestion by waiting so long past the 
proper hour for eating. So saying, she sat down, 
and it must be owned that her example found 
numerous followers. Not among the Hankin- 
sons, or the Harwoods, or the Bentons however. 

“ I know my daughter well enough to be pretty 
sure she wouldn’t stay hiding long, with all those 
cakes on the table,” observed Mrs. Hankinson, 
“ and I’m not going to sit down and eat my din- 
ner while she’s drowning.” 

My mother spoke to Arthur Billings (Kitty and 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 19 1 

I were instructed to call him Mr. Billings now 
that he was married, though we often forgot), 
and he and several other young men started out 
to organize a searching party. At first no one 
noticed the missing boat, and it was some time 
before a small boy volunteered the information 
that he had seen us get into a boat and row off, 
but he had not stopped to see whether we came 
back or not, being interested in something else. 

In the mean time we bold explorers were 
getting warm, tired, thirsty and hungry, and the 
desert island not yet in sight. To be sure we 
had ^the whole lake to drink from, but as there 
was nothing to dip it up in, that did us very little 
good. For a time Cissie and I took turns in 
rowing, always straight out towards the Canada 
shore, as far as we could judge. The water was 
rough and the pitching began to make Elinor 
seasick. We had broken one of the oars and lost 
another, so were reduced to one pair. 

“ Let’s go home,” said Cissie at length. Elinor 
had been for some time imploring us to tnrn 
back, although, as she said, she didn’t feel hungry 
any more, and doubted if she ever would be, 
again. 

We turned the boat about. But where was 
home ? The distant blue line of the shore looked 
all alike. There was a cloud of smoke over- 
hanging one point. That was probably North- 
port, we argued, and we headed our boat in that 


192 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

direction. The wind had increased greatly since 
we set out, and rowing against it we could make 
no headway. Cissie and I each labored with one 
oar, while Elinor lay, miserably ill, in the bottom 
of the boat. Emma Fantucci did not know how 
to row and, although Cissie and I were each 
anxious to show her how, she absolutely refused 
to be taught. In fact she did not seem to care 
to do anything else but cry and complain that 
she was hungry. 

At length, worn out with our exertions, our 
hands blistered and our faces on fire with the 
effects of wind and sun, we were forced to give 
up our feeble efforts. The smoky place that we 
had supposed to be Northport had long since 
faded from our sight ; we had passed it without 
getting nearer, borne on by the relentless force 
of the wind. We could not even see the shore 
any more — a soft blue haze made a mirage-like 
coast in whatever direction we looked, and the 
wind had at last died away to a dead calm. The 
sun was sinking in the sky. Poor foolish chil- 
dren that we were, we said that the sun must be 
setting in the west but how were we to tell north 
and south ? Even if we had known, w'e were too 
weary to make any further efforts and hungry 
and despairing we sat staring at each other 
silently. As night fell, and the stars one by one 
came out, we became very cold. Our thin sum- 
mer dresses afforded us but scant protection and 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 193 

even the faint breeze, so light as to scarcely stir 
the short locks upon our foreheads, made us 
shiver and shake. We had all cried till we were 
worn out, some of us openly and loudly, the 
others more or less furtively. There was noth- 
ing to be done — nothing but to wait for the 
morning and some passing boat. So, locked in 
each other’s arms, we lay down in the bottom of 
the boat, lulled by the gentle rocking and the 
splash of the waves into a dreamless sleep. 

13 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


A VIOLENT shock, a ' crash as of splintering 
wood and a hoarse shouting roused me from my 
sleep. My head was aching and stunned as if 
from a blow and, as I slowly sat up, I could 
scarcely realize where we were — out under the 
stars, drifting, drifting away from home and 
friends across that black expanse of water. It 
was even colder than before and my clothes 
seemed to be getting very wet ; the bottom of the 
boat was filling with water. 

“What is it, oh, what is it ?” moaned Elinor. 
She was not cold. Her hand, as it grasped 
mine, was burning with fever and she appeared 
not to know what was going on about her. Near 
us was a black mass that towered far above us, 
a sail-boat about forty feet in length, with main- 
sail and jib set. A small lantern twinkled in the 
bow and behind it hovered a dark form manoeu- 
vring with an oar, or boat-hook. Some one was 
swearing dreadfully — apparently at us — for not 
displaying a light ; as if we could ! 

The owner of the choice vocabulary leaned 

over the side of the boat and held aloft another 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 195 

lantern, as they approached us. “ By , Ben,” 

he exclaimed, “ it’s a lot o’ kids ! ” 

Ben reached his boat-hook, and, grappling the 
side of our skiff, drew us towards them. Cissie 
stood up and caught the side of their boat, 
“ Please, sir,” she said with a little quaver in her 
voice, “won’t you take us aboard. We’re lost. 

There was no immediate reply to this appeal 
but a whispered consultation between the two 
men, who seemed in some doubt as to whether 
they ought to take us in or not. The one called 
Ben, the younger of the two, was evidently in 
favor of doing so, but the other was opposed to 
it and in his earnestness he raised his voice from 
time to time. We overheard him say something 
about having to land in broad daylight. Finally 
he turned around and asked us gruffly where we 
belonged. We told him that we were from 
Northport, and, emboldened by so much favor, I 
assured him that our parents would be certain to 
pay them for their trouble if they would take us 
home. 

“ There now, Bill ! ” said the younger man, 
“you’ve got your chance now to turn an honest 
penny.” 

“ Don’t be a fool ! ” retorted Bill. “ D’ ye 
think I’d put into Northport in broad daylight 
with these things aboard an’ it wouldn’t do ’em 
no good if we got there in the night, if we could 
— which we couldn’t— not with this wind.” 


196 THE ME MOTES OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

“ Our boat’s leaking ; you’ve jammed a hole 
in it and we’ll be drowned. You’ll have to take 
us in,” rejoined Cissie firmly. 

“So ’t is, so ’t is,” said Ben peering over the 
side. “ Lend a hand here. Bill — it’s got to be 
done,” and they lifted us, one by one, over the 
side of their boat. “ Don’t cry, sissy,” he re- 
marked soothingly, holding up Elinor, who 
seemed unable to stand. “ Look at her hair. 
Bill,” he went on, touching one of her golden 
curls. “Jest the color o’ Jinnie’s and she’s jest 
about the age o’ Jinnie — the age she would a’ 
ben—” 

“ Don’t be a fool ! ” interrupted the other, 
gruffly. “ Here, I got to go below an’ fix things 
up a little ’fore them kids kin go down,” and he 
disappeared with his lantern into the cabin, care- 
fully closing the hatch after him. 

Ben was very kind to us. He wrapped his 
coat about Elinor and held her in his arms, and 
he found a cardigan jacket that he said the rest 
of us would have to wear in turn until he could 
make us comfortable in the cabin. Finding that 
we had had nothing to eat, he promised to make 
us a supper as soon as Bill came back to run the 
boat. “ He’s a-tidyin’ up the place a little ferye,” 
he remarked explanatorily. 

“I suppose you have your fish and your tackle 
down there ? ” I opined. 

“ Yes, that’s it,” he replied eagerly. “ Got the 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 197 

fish all out o’ sight and smelling, Bill ? ” he asked, 
as the elder man reappeared. 

“ I guess it’ll do, but you kids mustn’t touch a 
thing, d’ye hear ? I don’t want my tackle and 
bait all out o’ order.” 

We promised readily enough, and Ben took us 
down into the warm little cabin. It looked re- 
markably neat to me, as I gazed about me, and 
there was no odor of fish and no sign of fishing- 
tackle. One of the bunks was piled full of bales 
and parcels neatly done up, the other had been 
cleared for our occupancy, and Ben told us we 
should have to lie close, but that that was the 
best he could do. He brought out bread and 
butter, cheese, square chunks of cold pork and 
corned beef, and gave us some cold coffee to drink. 
It was the coarsest of food, and the coffee was so 
strong as to be bitter, but I think none of us had 
ever more thoroughly appreciated a meal. I am 
sure that I never did. Elinor could not eat, and 
this seemed to distress Ben greatly. “Wish t’ I 
had a cup o’ milk,” he said. “ Here, little dear, 
make a try at it, do. Eat jes’ a little o’ this 
nice bread and butter — jes’ fer old Ben, now — 
come.” 

Thus adjured, she raised her heavy head and 
ate a few mouthfuls, but sank back soon and was 
wrapped in a sleep so deep that nothing roused 
her. Ben looked at her doubtfully, as he care- 
fully laid her in the bunk. “ I guess she’ll be all 


198 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

right to-morrow,” he said. “ Don’t ye crowd her, 
now, will ye ? Give the little ’un a chance,” 

Two of us had to lie on the floor ; Emma and 
I offered to do so, and Cissie lay down beside her 
cousin. In spite of two oilskin coats as a mat- 
tress, and a cardigan jacket apiece for a pillow, 
we found our bed very hard, and I, excited by 
the strong coffee I had been drinking and the 
novelty of our situation, lay long awake. Ben 
had left the hatch a little open for ventilation, 
and the voices of the two men in earnest conver- 
sation floated down to my ears. At first they 
spoke very low, but as they gradually raised their 
voices, I gathered from their talk that they were 
discussing the best means of getting us ashore. 
What were these strange creatures, I wondered ? 
Not simple fishermen, surely. Could they be 
pirates ? A cold chill thrilled its way down my 
spine. I had not read so much about pirates as 
a small boy of my age would probably have done, 
but I knew enough of the presumable habits of 
pirates to be almost certain that Ben could not 
be a sailor under the black flag. And yet, what 
did such talk as the following signify ? 

“ If we take them girls up to a dock at North- 
port the hull town ’ll be swarmin’ all over us 
’fore we kin cast off. They’ll all be wantin’ ter 
thank us, ’n shake hands with us, ’n if we put 
out like that, soyne one ’ll surely suspicion us. 
The cutter’s there now, too. The hull gang ’ll 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 199 

be down on us ’for ye kin wink yer eye.” So 
spoke Bill. 

“ We’re in a hole, ole man,” sighed Ben. 
“ They ain’t no doubt about that. Likes not we 
won’t never git to the dock with ’em. Ef it 
wa’n’t fer the Perry bein’ in port, Td say — chance 
it.” 

“Course ye would. You ain’t got a fambly 
a dependin’ on yer,” growled Bill. 

“ ’ S if my nevvys and nieces warn’t as much 
ter me as they be ter their father ! ” retorted the 
younger man. “You got no call to say that. 
Bill.” 

Bill seemed very cross. He argued and swore 
a great deal, and he especially cursed the luck 
that had led them to discover us and that had 
' led us to make a voyage of discovery. “ I’ve a 
good mind ter put ’em on their island ’n let em 
stay there,” he said. 

At length I fell into a troubled sleep, broken 
in upon at intervals by the talk of the two men 
and Elinor’s moaning and occasional incoherent 
words. When I awakened at last, we seemed to 
be in the midst of a perfect uproar. The men 
were shouting from the deck of our boat to some 
one else more distant, and there was a roar of 
escaping steam. In the midst of the confusion, 
it seemed as though I recognized familiar voices. 
Slowly and stiffly I climbed to my feet, for I was 
lame and sore from the exposure. Emma was 


200 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


awake and sitting up. ‘‘ Where are we t ” she 
asked. 

" I don’t know, but it’s morning and I guess 
we’ve got somewhere. “ Let’s go out,” and I 
led the way up the little ladder into the cold, gray 
dawn. There, bearing down upon us, was a 
small tug boat, and, standing on the deck, I recog- 
nized my dear father. With a shout of delight 
I stretched out my arms towards him, and, as 
our boats slowly drew together, I fell to weeping. 

“ Stand off there,” shouted Bill. “ Keep her 
off. Don’t get any closer. Here, get them 
young ’uns up, Ben, an’ put ’em aboard.” 

“ We want ter git through this job ’s quick as 
we kin,” remarked Ben apologetically, as he 
passed us to the deck of the tug. “ We want 
ter git t’ work at our fishin’ er we’ll lose the 
best o’ the day.” 

“That’s so, my good fellow,” said my father, 
“ but you shan’t lose anything by it. Throw us 
your rope and keep alongside till we can thank 
you as we ought.” 

“ Oh, no thanks, sir, no thanks,” said Ben 
hastily. Bill began hoisting sail to catch the 
light breeze that had risen, and, almost before we 
knew it, they had shoved off and were melting 
out of sight into the gray haze, leaving us open- 
mouthed and astonished on the deck of our little 
steamer. 

“ Well, I swan ! ” exclaimed our captain. 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 201 


“ That beats me ! What they want to run off 
like that for ? ” 

“ Don’t you see ? ” said one of the boatmen. 
“ That wa*s Bill an’ Ben Struthers, sure. They 
caught a look at Cap’n Harwood here, an’ the 
sight wan’t good for their eyes.” 

Captain Harwood, Elinor’s father, and an offi- 
cer in the revenue service, was holding his 
daughter in his arms. “This shall be investi- 
gated,” he said briefly. But I don’t think that it 
ever was to any great extent. At any rate, 
though we were asked innumerable questions 
about the contents of the cabin and the appear- 
ance of the men, nothing ever came of it, and 
our smugglers — if smugglers they were — were 
never detected and punished. I, for one, was not 
sorry. It would have made me very unhappy 
to have had anything happen to big, good- 
natured Ben, who had so tenderly fed and cared 
for us as best he could on that dreary night. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


We explorers had rather a bad time of it the 
rest of that summer. Our respective mothers 
were firmly convinced, each one that her 
child must be preserved from the pernicious 
influence of the other children. My mother 
was a long time in getting over the shock 
of that day and night of terror and anxiety. For 
weeks she was not herself, but grew nervous and 
hysterical whenever I was out of her sight. I was 
kept very much at home, and, of all my special 
friends, only Cissie came often to see me. Mrs. 
Hankinson simply could not stay at home, and so 
her children did very much as they pleased, as 
usual. Elinor was ill for some time after our 
voyage ; the exposure had proved too severe for 
her delicate constitution, so we saw her rarely, 
and Emma Fantucci was as carefully guarded as 
I was. It was reported that Mrs. Fantucci said 
her child should never associate again with those 
rough and mischievous girls. Cissie and I 
thought this rather unjust, especially as Emma 
had suggested the Robinson Crusoe idea to us. 

Cissie had a ticket to the city circulating 
library, and she used to bring her books over to 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 203 

my house. Together we devoured volume after 
volume, lying on the grass in the shade of our 
big plum trees. Mrs. Hankinson laid no restric- 
tions on her daughter’s choice, except as to books 
of adventure. “We’ve have had enough ad- 
ventures in our family to last 07 ie while,” she re- 
marked. 

We thought so, too. Our taste was all for 
romance and chivalry, now. We adored “The 
Children of the Abbey ” and Miss Porter’s “Scot- 
tish Chiefs.” The fainting, blushing, weeping, 
languishing heroines seemed beings of superfine 
clay, and the terrible gloom of Jane Eyre’s 
Rochester was far more effective in our eyes 
than the cheerful politeness we saw admired in 
the world about us. 

My brother wrote me long letters, in which he 
exhorted me to read and study. He often sent 
me books and asked me to write my opinions of 
them and my criticisms, if I had any to make. 
He seemed particularly desirous to form my 
mind in the direction of intellectual rather than 
social pleasures, and he held out to me the hope 
of some day living with him, and being educated 
under his supervision, should his means permit. 
Laurie thought I was getting much too old, he 
wrote, to indulge in such pranks as had twice, 
of late, narrowly missed putting an end to my 
existence. I ought to begin to find my pleasure 
in other things than playing practical jokes and 


204 the memoirs of a little girl . 

romping like a small boy. And so I did, in fact. 
My latest adventure had had a very sobering 
effect on me. I was determined *to do nothing 
again that should cause my family so much dis- 
tress and myself such remorse. 

Cissie quite agreed with me. She said that 
those other girls were much too young in their 
tastes for us, and that we alone knew how to 
appreciate the pleasures of intellect. The reac- 
tion that we both experienced was so great that our 
own mothers scarcely knew us. I am afraid that 
we were both very priggish and absurd, as well 
as being literary. Cissie’s mind recovered its 
original tone first, however, and it all came about 
through Teddy Langdon. 

Soon after we began our readings under the 
plum-tree, Teddy discovered us, and, after that, 
if he were anywhere about, we did but little read- 
ing. He began his attentions by throwing green 
apples over the fence at us, and by being very 
witty at my expense. He asked with a great 
appearance of interest, whether the burglar busi- 
ness was good now, and if I had any more friends 
in that line who were out of a job. It soon 
dawned on me, however, that these pleasantries 
were not intended to make an impression on me 
but on my companion, and, greatly to my sur- 
prise and disgust, I found that she was losing her 
interest in the readings and acquiring a decided 
interest in Teddy. As soon as this fact became 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 205 

patent, I thought it my duty to point out to Cissie 
the worthlessness of Teddy’s character. The 
only effect that this friendly office accomplished 
was to make Cissie accuse me of being jealous. 
Jealous of Teddy Langdon ! Words failed me 
in which to express my scorn at such an un- 
worthy suspicion ; Cissie, quite unmoved, retorted 
that I had liked him well enough last winter — as 
every one knew. 

“Last winter is very different from now,” I 
observed, with dignity. “ I hope I know better 
now than to have such a boy as Teddy for my 
friend. I was only a little girl then.” 

“ Anyhow, he’s the best skater in school,” said 
Cissie, “and my mother says he’s the prettiest 
boy in town.” 

“ But he’s so backward, Cissie. I thought we 
were going to give up people that didn’t know 
as much as we did.” 

“Oh, I wish you’d stop talking about Teddy. 
I don’t care anything about him,” exclaimed my 
friend pettishly. “I’d rather read about Robert 
Bruce any day than talk to him, but I don’t think 
it’d be very polite not to speak to him at all.” 

I was simple-minded enough to be delighted 
with these professions and the next time I met 
Teddy, I explained to him the state of the case, 
and requested him, as courteously as possible, to 
abstain from interrupting our readings in thq 
future, 


2o6 the memoirs of a little girl. 


“ Oh, come off, Miss Primpy ! ” was the dis- 
respectful reply. “ You’re too smart for any- 
thing since you went into the burglar business.” 

I was horribly sensitive on this subject and 
always preferred to retreat rather than to stand 
my ground when mention of it was brought up, 
and so I simply made a face at Teddy, quite in 
my old style, and went into the house. This 
impulsiveness of manner was a great source of 
mortification to me. Here I had been an entire 
month engaged in constructing a new character, 
with new manners to match, but occasionally 
they would slip off, like a garment that does not 
fit and leave me revealed — just my old self — and 
just a little girl after all. 

I waited in vain for Cissie that afternoon. We 
were in the midst of Amanda’s fifteenth or six- 
teenth " scrape ” (that was what we called them) 
and we had reluctantly left her without seeing 
how she got out of it. I went to the front door 
again and again and looked longingly up the 
street towards my friend’s home. Once I thought 
I saw her, but no — that could not be Cissie walk- 
ing in the other direction, with a boy. I screwed 
up my near-sighted eyes and tried my best to 
make out whether it was or not ; just then they 
turned a corner and were lost to sight. Mamma 
had told me that I was not to go out, as she her- 
self was going to be away that afternoon, and 
she wished to know just where I was, she said 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 207 

significantly. Kitty went with mamma. Honora 
was cross even if I had cared to condescend to 
talk to her which I didn’t — very often. I looked 
over all our books, but I had already read them 
so many times that they quite failed to interest. 
Here was a pretty plight to be in, I thought, 
sulkily. What did my family expect of me ? If 
it had not been for my reconstructed character, 
I must infallibly have got into some mischief, left 
so entirely to my own resources. At last the 
door-bell rang and I flew to welcome my friend 
only to find at the door — not Cissie, but one of 
her small brothers with a much-folded note from 
her, which he delivered and then took to his heels 
without waiting for a reply. 

The note was brief and to the point. All it 
contained was, written in a very large hand — 
“Miss Bessie Benton, you are a Tattle-TaUT 
And it was signed with many flourishes — 
“Cecilia Hankinson,” 

What did it mean ? I sat down on the stairs 
to think. Gradually a light dawned upon me. 
That was Cissie whom I had seen walking with 
a boy, and the boy, no doubt, was Teddy Lang- 
don. He was telling her what I had said and 
she was telling him (doubtless) that she hadn’t 
said anything, or didn’t mean anything. “Very 
well,” I said firmly. “If she prefers Teddy’s 
friendship to mine, she’s welcome to it, but it’s a 
blow to me to find her so false, I wish we could 


2o8 the memoirs of a little girl . 


have finished ‘ The Children of the Abbey ’ before 
this happened, though.” 

I had assured myself that I didn’t care, and 
that she was welcome to change her mind ; never- 
theless I couldn’t keep myself from feeling very 
blue over it. Mamma and Kitty did not come 
home till supper-time and I had a long afternoon 
to brood over my wrongs and sorrows. They 
had been making calls — mamma driving in a 
top buggy with a very old white horse, whose 
only vice was a tendency to stumble or to go to 
sleep on the road — a rig she sometimes hired for 
such occasions. It had been a great event for 
Kitty. She talked so much at supper and gave 
such graphic accounts of all they had seen and 
done and heard, that my silence was not re- 
marked. Only when we went out to sit on the 
steps in the twilight of the August evening, did 
mamma seem to notice my sadness. “ Why don’t 
you go after some of your friends, Bess ? ” she 
asked, patting me on the shoulder. 

“ I have no friends, mamma,” I answered 
gloomily. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


CissiE and I never finished " The Children of 
the Abbey ” ; at least, we did not read any more 
of it together. When I told mamma about it, 
and represented to her the deprivation I felt it to 
be that I might not read the rest of the fascinat- 
ing book, she said that she was glad of it — that 
it was not at all a suitable novel for a girl of my 
age. “ It’s a very silly story, anyway, Bess, as 
you will see some day, but now you will have to 
be satisfied with knowing that the heroine mar- 
ried the hero in spite of all obstacles. And I 
want you to promise me not to read any more 
romances at present — at least not without con- 
sulting me. 

When I finally finished the book, years after, I 
was much surprised to find that my mother was 
right — that it was a very silly story. I have ex- 
perienced many such surprises in my life. I have 
gone back to the old farm and found that the 
river was, after all, only a little creek ; that the 
mountain in the distance was only a steep hill ; 
that St. John’s Church could be put, steeple and 
all, into the nave of Westminster Abbey ; that 
my dear mother did not know quite everything ; 

14 


210 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


that my father, as a violinist, was somewhat in- 
ferior to Ole Bull ; that — but why go on ? Every 
one of us can complete the parallel from his 
own experience. 

Fortunately for the good of my health, mental 
and physical, the schools opened the week after 
my falling out with Cissie, and I was too busy to 
think quite all the time of the vanity of human 
hopes and the hollowness of friendship. I had 
contemplated writing a poem on this last sub- 
ject, but never got beyond the first stanza — 

“ Oh my friend, so shallow-hearted, * 

Oh companion, mine no more — 

Oh the weary, weary waiting, 

Waiting for thee at my door.” 

The reader will doubtless observe a slight 
resemblance to certain lines in Locksley Hall — a 
poem that I was much given to reading in those 
first days of deception and disappointment. 
Cissie and Teddy were well nigh inseparable. 
They paraded their friendship up and down be- 
fore my windows, while I masked my feelings 
under an exterior of stony calm — at least that 
is what I called it to myself. They called it 
something different, I believe — said that I looked 
out and turned my nose up at them — or some- 
thing equally vulgar. As I have said, it was 
fortunately time for school, and I had to readjust 
myself .to habits of daily mental work, which I 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 2 1 1 


found difficult, at first, after the long, idle sum- 
mer. Kitty was put in school, too, in the lowest 
class in the same building, and I had to take her 
with me every morning and see that she went 
safely home every afternoon. I made it my busi- 
ness to look after her a little at recess, too, and 
see that no one teased or bullied her. So much 
responsibility steadied me a little, and I began 
to forget some of my romantic fancies and to 
take an interest in every-day affairs. 

Just at this period Fancher’s trial came up, 
and I had to get leave to absent myself to face 
this dreaded ordeal. It did not last long, how- 
ever. I was spared the necessity of being put on 
the witness stand by the burglar himself. By 
the advice of his lawyer, he pleaded guilty, and, as 
he was able to make full restitution of the stolen 
goods (they were all buried in a lonely spot near 
the canal), he was let off with a light sentence. 
The fact that he had left the booty he had come 
back to seek, and plunged into the water to save 
my life, was a point very much in his favor, and 
one of which the most was made. My father 
made an appeal, in which he said that there was 
an element of courage and self-sacrifice hidden 
under all that was depraved and vicious in the 
man’s nature, and that it behooved society to 
correct and to reform rather than to punish. 

Fancher, on his side, insisted on making' a 
speech, much against the will of his lawyer. He 


212 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


frequently referred to me in a way that over- 
whelmed me with embarrassment, and he said 
that I was “ the squarest kid ” he ever met. 
With deep feeling, he went on to state that it 
made a fellow believe “ in things ” (indefinite, 
but he seemed to know what he meant) to see a 
“ little toad like that so straight and true.” 
What he deprecated, however, apparently with 
perfect honesty, was that so much fuss should be 
made about rescuing me. “ I could of walked 
ashore by meself,” he said, and this reminded 
him of the absurd view that society and the law 
took of “ things.” He said that if a man did 
anything like that people made fuss enough to 
“ make him sick,” and he thought they were just 
as absurd in the opposite way if he did anything 
against the law. Here his counsel pulled him 
down to a sitting position and succeeded in stop- 
ping the flow of his eloquence. It would have 
been interesting, though, to have learned just 
what Mr. Fancher thought of the law. He 
seemed pleased at his sentence of three years, 
however, so perhaps he did not consider that 
society’s view of his case was altogether wrong. 

Accompanied by my mother, I went to say 
good-bye to Fancher. I privately hoped that it 
was a final parting. We took him some good 
books and plenty of good advice. By the ex- 
pression of his face, I fancied that he cared as 
little for one as for the other, but he was too in- 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 213 

timidated by my mother’s appearance and bear- 
ing to say anything of the sort. I had sug- 
gested taking him something nice to eat, but, on 
this question my mother was firm. She did not 
believe in pampering criminals, she said, and 
when my father confessed to having sent him 
some tobacco, she seemed very much put out. 

And so exit Fancher. In my life he appeared 
no more. I wish that I could record that he 
served his term, which was shortened for good 
conduct, and emerged from prison resolved to 
lead a better life, that he worked his way out 
from his miserable past, that he became a useful 
citizen, an ornament to the community and a 
pillar of the church. Perhaps, according to his 
lights, he was indeed a reformed character, and 
it is possible that he pointed with pride to his 
later achievements and held out to the young men 
who frequented his bar the hope of arising to 
the proud eminence to which he had climbed. 
He opened a saloon in a neighboring city, which 
became a resort for the worst characters there- 
abouts, but, up to the present writing, Fancher 
himself has never re-appeared in a court of 
justice, except to answer from time to time for 
a violation of the excise laws, or to appear as 
a witness in the trial of some habitue of his 
place. 

Outside of school hours I now began to indulge 
my literary tastes as my leisure would permit. 


214 MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


Under my mother’s supervision I read a great 
deal — history and poetry now being my favorite 
themes. At this time I cherished the ambi- 
tion of one day being a poetess whose fame 
should be world-wide. I thought it would be a 
great thing for Laurie to have a member of his 
family to contribute to his paper without money 
and without price, and I forwarded to him a 
budget of poems to be used as occasion required. 
Some of them were patriotic, some sentimental. 
The patriotic ones were chiefly inspired by the 
plans which were already being made for a Cen- 
tennial Exposition. I remember one of them 
which began — 

“ A hundred years has my country seen 
And ’tis, as ever, fresh and green, 

And centuries more may the noble nation 
Retain its great and glorious station,” etc. 

Greatly to my disappointment, however, Laurie 
did not print any of these poems. He suggested 
that the best ones sounded so like some things 
that had already been published, and that the 
others were rather lacking in finish. He thought 
that it would be better to let them lie awhile be- 
fore attempting to correct these defects, and then 
perhaps I should see more clearly just what they 
needed. And so my first manuscript came home 
as “ not available.” 

My mother had endeavored to prepare me for 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


215 


the disappointment by telling me of the early 
struggles of authors and of their thankfulness, 
when their talents were matured, that their earlier 
and cruder works had never seen the light. But 
what young person is ever prepared for disap- 
pointment ? They always fancy that their case 
is to be the great exception which proves the rule. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


A WAVE of religious revival was sweeping over 
the whole country and its force was strongly felt 
in Northport. We did not have Moody and 
Sankey there, but we had our local revivalists 
who modelled themselves after them and used 
their set phrases and sang their songs. As 1 
have said, we were church people, and so this re- 
adjustment of beliefs and practices did not touch 
us very closely. We often went to the meetings, 
but it was rather to look and listen than to 
participate. I privately thought them very 
amusing and it is barely possible that my parents 
did, too, although they were careful never to let 
it appear. All the town drunkards and the 
“ shocking examples ” came forth, were prayed 
over, reclaimed and became, at least for a time, 
the edification of the meetings. They all made 
speeches and told how wicked they used to be ; 
they vied with each other in their revelations of 
the depths to which they had sunk. The one 
who could tell the worst story was looked upon 
with some degree of envy by his companions. 
To me, a little Episcopalian, with ears trained to 
the grand and sonorous roll of words that even 
a poor elocutionist cannot spoil, these speeches 
were simply ludicrous. I was too young to feel 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 217 

the real earnestness which underlay the halting 
words, and I could not see why people who spoke 
so badly should wish to speak so much. Jim 
Flanagan was chief among the sinners who 
repented, and the bowed figure of his poor old 
mother, wrapped in her threadbare shawl, was 
nearly always to be seen on one of the front seats 
listening to the eloquence of her “ bye.” Her 
old head, crowned by a bonnet on which waved 
three wild and defiant ostrich feathers, quite out 
of curl, used to wag mournfully as Jim told of his 
misdeeds and her toil-hardened fingers furtively 
brushed tears from her eyes when he told of the 
man he was going to be, " s’ help ” him God. 
She did not quite approve of the meetings, being 
herself a devout Catholic, but she was not insen- 
sible to the fame and the substantial help which 
her son’s “change of heart” brought him. 

The leading evangelist was a little, red-faced 
man, with a stentorian voice and a collection of 
cut-and-dried sentiments and phrases. He called 
every one “ Brother.” He led out each speech- 
making sinner by the hand and slapped him on 
the back to give him courage. If the speech 
faltered a little or the speaker got into a tight 
place he was ever ready to come to the rescue, 
with a fervent “ Bless the Lord ! ” or “ That’s so, 
brother ! ” an “ Amen ! ” or a “ Hallelujah ! ’ 
He was always talking about burning bridges 
behind him and keeping his lower lights a-burn- 


2i8 the memoirs of a little girl . 


ing — whatever he meant by that ; I never could be 
quite sure. I asked Mrs. Arthur Billings, who 
was once more our spiritual director, to explain, 
but she was very reserved on the subject and 
only said that she did not go to the meetings. 
She would express no opinion of them to us, 
though I heard her tell my mother that she sup- 
posed that they did some good, but that they 
were very shocking to her. Mrs. Arthur was 
not quite the oracle she had been to me a year 
before, though I still had great respect for her 
opinion. I was glad to see, too, that time was 
modifying some of her views and she had ceased 
to be quite so High Church as she used to be. 

As the winter went on and the meetings some- 
what lost their first interest for us, I, and most of 
the girls of my acquaintance, began rehearsing 
for an operetta to be given for the benefit of the 
public-school music-master, whose business it 
was to teach a few of the elementary principles 
of vocal art. It must be admitted that the poor 
man earned a benefit, if ever any one did. He 
worked himself to a shadow over his fairy 
operetta, introducing some “gems” of his own 
composition, and he had rather more than he 
could manage to reduce his self-willed artists and 
his turbulent chorus to something like order and 
unanimity. To us the rehearsals were simple 
“ fun,” especially after we got far enough along 
.to have them in the Opera House. Now that I 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 219 

am no more young, I can understand the earnest- 
ness, the weariness of some of those poor people 
whose lot in life it is to train exuberant youth. 
Their tired faces, their nervous ways meet with 
scant sympathy from the young and yet — how 
really pitiable after all is their fate, unless they 
be strong — strong enough to dominate those 
under their charge. Poor Mr. Williams was 
very far from being equal to the situation and his 
constant appeals received little attention. 
“ Young ladies, young ladies, please pay atten- 
tion.” “Young ladies, no talking, he 
used to iterate and reiterate, drawling out the 
“ please ” as though he were on the verge of tears. 

My voice was strong and true and, besides 
singing in the chorus, I had a small — a very small 
— solo allotted to me. I was to be one of several 
fairies, who in turn tripped down to the front of 
the stage, waved their wands and sang a couplet 
about spring having returned, and expressing 
their joy that they could once more dance upon 
the green. We had great difficulty in appearing 
light and airy enough ; some ran, some pranced 
and some clattered down the stage in anything 
but a fairy-like manner. Mr. Williams, when we 
came to this part, used to fairly tear his hair at 
the noise we made, and he always began to clap 
his hands together vigorously and exclaim “ Now, 
trip, trip, TRIP ! ” as we stamped down to the 
front. One of our number, Lucy Carr, a large 


220 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


heavy girl, chosen on account of her beautiful 
voice, was particularly exasperating to the music- 
master, and his “ trip, trip, trip ” rose almost to 
a shriek when her turn came. One afternoon, 
as Lucy stumbled out from our group and started 
to the front, Mr. Williams began his “ don't 
you trip, trip, trip ? ” Trip she did, and fell flat 
on her face, to our great joy and our leader’s 
despair. We shouted with laughter, in spite of 
Mr. Williams’ “ Now, young ladies, young ladies, 
how can you be so rude ? ” The coincidence did 
not seem to strike him as at all humorous and, 
in spite of our giggling every time he did it, he 
said the same thing whenever we came to that 
part of the play. 

For some unexplained reason, one of the 
plainest girls in town had been selected for the 
character who, by her pride, offends the fairies 
and brings their vengeance upon her. She had 
to toss her head in a manner supposed to indi- 
cate great haughtiness and dance about singing : 

“ I’m rich, Fm gay, I’m dashing, 

I know that I’m handsome.” 

When she made this statement we always gig- 
gled, and Mr. Williams frowned fiercely at us 
and shook his head. Then we came on in a troop 
with long loose brown cloaks over our stiff tarle- 
ton skirts. We approached the haughty beauty 
and asked alms. She spurned us with scorn, not 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 221 


noticing the white shoes which peeped beneath 
our cloaks, although some of them, at least, were 
very noticeable. Then we tried begging of a 
poor flower-girl, who, instead of giving us any- 
thing, sang a very long song, in which she told 
her entire family history and the misfortunes 
which had overtaken her, expressing her regret 
in the last stanza that she had nothing to give. 
Meantime the haughty one walked about, tossing 
her head to express her scorn of the poor flower- 
girl and of us. Thereupon the fairy queen waved 
her wand and threw off her cloak — we all threw 
off our cloaks, and the beauty and the flower-girl 
struck attitudes expressive of consternation. 
The indignant queen then tapped the two mortals 
with her wand and told them that they were to 
change places for life. After some little hesita- 
tion and difficulty, the clothes of each one 
dropped away, revealing them in their changed 
estate — the beauty in rags, the flower-girl in a 
cotton-velvet gown, gay with tinsel trimmings. 
The flower-girl managed the transformation very 
well, as her rags hung loosely over the gown 
beneath, but the haughty one had a dreadful time 
of it at the dress rehearsal, and finally had to be 
assisted out of her good clothes. She assured 
Mr. Williams that all would be as it should at 
the performance, however, and he was unwise 
enough to believe her. 

On the night of the public performance all 


222 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. ' 


went well until this scene was reached, but the 
beauty wrestled in vain with her fine garments, 
while the queen, in response to a tap from the 
conductor’s baton, sang over again .her curse. 
The flower-girl, long since transformed, stood 
staring and uncomfortable, not daring to fall on 
her knees to bless the queen until the beauty 
was ready. The audience began to realize the 
situation and tittered a little. This so upset the 
beauty that she made a frantic effort and then 
said in andible tones, “ I can’t unhook it,” and 
gave up the attempt. The flower-girl promptly 
fell on her knees and finished up her part of the 
scene, but the haughty beauty stood still and 
silent — a picture of despair — and utterly refused 
to sing her plea for mercy. The curtain fell 
amid shouts of laughter from the gallery and loud 
applause from the friends of the players in the 
orchestra chairs. 

Mr. Williams was in a frenzy. “ You’ve 
ruined the whole thing with your hooks and 
eyes,” he said to the weeping beauty. “ I’ll go 
home!” retorted the beauty. “You’d better, 
before you spoil anything else,” rejoined the 
music-master. “ I’ll tell my mother what you 
said, and she won’t let me take any more piano 
lessons of you.” Thus the beauty. 

Piano lessons meant bread and butter to the 
teacher, who received only a small salary for his 
work in the public schools. His wrath immedi- 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 223 

ately cooled, and he did his best to soothe the 
beauty before another act should begin. She 
finally allowed herself to be pacified, and, as she 
was to be a fairy in the back row of the chorus 
in the second act, she was at last persuaded to go 
on again. 

In this act I sang my solo in a “ still, small 
voice,” which must have penetrated quite to the 
footlights on some of the high notes, but I 
tripped, tripped, tripped, and didn’t do anything 
awkward, so I had much to be thankful for, 
even if I achieved no great distinction. After- 
wards I had my picture taken in my fairy cos- 
tume, gauzy wings, star-tipped wand and all, 
standing very stiff and solemn beside a broken 
column, with a vine-wreathed ruin and some 
rocks in the distance. 

The rest of the operetta went smoothly, and 
Mr. Williams made us a little speech after it was 
over, in which he expressed himself as ex- 
tremely gratified by the performance. He looked 
anything but gratified as he stood twisting his 
nervous fingers and rumpling his hair, in fact I 
have rarely seen a more worn-out and dejected- 
looking countenance. It is to be hoped that the 
box-office receipts went a little way towards mak- 
ing him happy. They were unusually good, 
thanks to the fact that he had every little girl in 
the town in the piece, and consequently every 
family who possessed a young daughter as 
interested spectators. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


As the winter advanced, the revival meetings 
were less crowded. Some of the repentant sin- 
ners had back-slidden or were on the point of so 
doing. Jim Flanagan, having made the most 
of his brief period of notoriety, and absorbed all 
the suits of clothes and other trifles that were 
showered on him by benevolent Christians, had 
gone back to his old habits. That spring one 
of the commonest topics of conversation was 
whether So-and-So had kept the pledge he had 
taken and how Such-a-One had relapsed into his 
former misdoing. By summer scarcely one of 
the penitent ones was still penitent. Most of 
them were engaged in laying up a fresh record 
to be sorry for. 

The operetta had given us all more or less of 
a taste for theatricals, and I could think of no 
greater treat to bestow on my mother on her 
birthday than to get up something of the sort for 
her amusement. My first idea was to play the 
“ School for Scandal,” having recently been taken 
to see that play, with Mrs. D. P. Bowers as Lady 
Teazle. I soon gave this up, however, owing to 
the difficulty of getting together a suitable cast. 
We finally concluded to content ourselves with a 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 225 

series of tableaux and some charades. One of 
the tableaux was entitled “ The Drunkard’s 
Family.” I, of course, was the drunkard (I had 
to be the principal character in everything). 
Enveloped in an old coat of my father’s, with a 
battered felt hat drawn very much over one eye, 
I sat by a small kitchen-table, on which stood an 
array of bottles — catsup, vinegar, alcohol, and 
strawberry shrub — enough of a combination to 
make even a drunkard’s hair stand on end. I 
had a glass of weak shrub and water in one 
hand and a burnt-cork moustache adorned my 
chubby and befloured countenance. My nose 
was as red as a petal from an artificial rose could 
make it, and I had painted large hollows about 
my eyes and in the middle of each cheek, as the 
stage directions indicated. These were mis- 
taken for bruises by the audience. On a heap of 
old clothes in the background lay Kitty, the 
drunkard’s child, also liberally plastered with 
flour and burnt cork. Much against my better 
judgment, I had been obliged to paint a red nose 
on her cherubic face. She insisted on it. She 
said that mine looked so funny and that she 
would not play unless she could have red on her 
nose, too. The drunkard’s wife, Cissie Hankin- 
son, attired in ragged garments, reclined on a 
heap of hay, her hair hanging loose about her 
shoulders, voraciously devouring a crust — thi§ 
\vas her idea, an4 I thought it very good, 

15 


226 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


To our great surprise, this pathetic picture 
was received our assembled families and their 
neighbors with roars of laughter. Teddy Lang- 
don, who had a front seat, called out, “ Been 
givin’ the little ’un a drink out of the ketchup 
bottle ? And some one else in the rear of the 
room asked, “Why don’t you give the child 
some bread ? ” and another suggested, “ Give 
your wife a chair.” We were so hurt by this 
reception that we refused the encore which was 
loudly demanded. 

“ I don’t believe they would have laughed at 
all if it hadn’t been for your red nose, Kitty,” I 
said, much aggrieved. “ I’m sure Cissie and I 
weren’t funny.” 

“Boys always make fun of everything,” re- 
marked Cissie philosophically. They’d make 
fun of a funeral. ” 

“Yes, they would. Jack Jessup said he had lots of 
fun at his grandpa’s funeral,” put in Kitty eagerly. 

“Jack Jessup is a very bad little boy,” I said 
didactically. “ The perfect idea of such a thing ! 
It is just disrespectable.” 

None of us appeared in the next scene which 
was entitled “ The Light of Other Days.” It con- 
sisted of a lighted candle standing on the drunk- 
ard’s kitchen table. This was received with 
greatapplause and we felt somewhat encouraged. 
Our next number was a musical one, a waltz, 
played by Cissie. This ^Iso was kindly received, 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 227 

in spite of the fact that she twice broke down 
and began all over again. Next came ‘'St. 
Agnes at the Stake ” — Kitty in a long white robe 
that looked suspiciously like a nightgown. We 
had nailed two boards together in the form of a 
cross and tied her to it in a kneeling position, 
with bunches of patent kindling neatly arranged 
about her. Her hands were clasped in prayer, 
her long curls floated loosely over her shoulders 
and her great innocent brown eyes were raised 
heavenward in a way that would have melted 
the heart of the most hardened executioner. This 
tableau had a tremendous success and we were 
obliged to repeat it three times. Fearing that it 
would leave too painful an impression on our audi- 
ence, we had prepared another to follow it, 
which we playfully entitled “ Rebecca at the 
Steak." This was simply a small girl pounding 
vigorously on a very little piece of meat. The 
audience did not quite understand it at firsf, but 
when they did, it also received a round of applause. 

Our program being terminated, we actors 
mixed affably with the company and joined them 
in partaking of nuts and apples, cider and cake. 
My mother thanked us and assured us that she 
had not in many years so greatly enjoyed a birth- 
day. Of course, the boys made fun of us, but 
we didn’t mind that any more. It was- on that 
evening that Cissie confided to me how badly she 
had been treated by Teddy, I was, naturally, 


2 28 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL, 


deeply interested, and highly gratified by being 
chosen as a confidant. 

“I wouldn’t tell any one else for the world,” 
said Cissie pathetically, “ but you know what 
Teddy Langdon is.” 

With great difficulty I refrained from saying 
“ I told you so last summer.” Instead, however, 
I only asked what he had done. 

“ He wrote me a note in school and passed it 
over without anybody catching him. He pre- 
tended he wanted to get a drink, you know, and 
when he went by my desk, he just dropped it 
right in my lap.” 

“ What was in the note ? ” I asked eagerly. 

Cissie blushed a little. “ Oh, a whole lot of 
stuff. I wouldn’t like to tell all the silly things 
he said, but at the end of it he asked me to go 
skating with him. Well, then I wrote back and 
told ’him ‘ Yes ’ and then I went for a drink of 
water. I s’pose Miss Ketcham thought it was 
queer I walked ’way over by the boys’ side so — 
any way she was watching, and the minute I 
dropped my note on Teddy’s desk, she said — aw- 
ful loud — “ Theodore ! bring that note to me.” 
Teddy just took it and slung it out into the aisle, 
but she made him bring it right up to her and 
she read it and just grinned that horrid way she 
has. I thought I’d die ! ” 

“What did Teddy do?” I inquired sympa- 
thetically. 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 229 

“ That’s the worst part of it. He was just as 
mad to be caught that way, and he up-ed and 
said he never wrote to me at all and that 1 was 
always writing him notes.” 

“O-o-oh !” I exclaimed indignantly. 

“Yes, and I got out his note and a lot of others 
I had from him and started up to Miss Ketcham 
with ’em and he just flew at me and tried to get 
’em away and was perfectly wild, he was so mad.” 

“ I just wish I’d been there. I’d a-helped get 
the best of Mr. Teddy.” 

“ It was while you were down in the German 
class, you know. Any way, Miss Ketcham said 
she didn’t want to read any more such silly non- 
sense and she’d take my word for it, but if she 
caught either of us writing again she’d tell the 
Principal. Oh, I nearly sank through the floor. 
It just seems to me as if I never wanted to have 
another beau again.” 

“ That’s just the way I feel,” I said solemnly. 
“ After Teddy treated me so mean last winter, I 
just made up my mind that I’d never, never care 
for any one again that way, and I never have. 
That’s a whole year, too.” 

I could see that such fortitude surprised Cissie. 
“ Let’s go skating all by ourselves, and never 
mind the boys,” I added. 

Cissie agreed to this, although it was evident 
that she did not regard the prospect as partic- 
ularly gay. 


230 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

It was a very cold winter and we skated a 
great deal. Coasting I had almost entirely given 
up, thinking myself too old for that sport — I was 
nearly twelve — and the only use I put my sled to 
was to draw Kitty to and from school occasionally, 
when the snow was deep. Coasting on the Jes- 
sups’ big bob sled was an altogether different 
matter, and Cissie, Emma Fantucci and I used 
often to accept such invitations from the Jessup 
boys. Knowing my mother’s objections to bobs, 
I forgot to say anything about these parties until 
the day when we ran into a farmer’s sleigh and 
upset him. He was bringing a box of limed 
eggs to market and the collision was bad for the 
The eggs would have been bad for the 
consumers, if we had not intervened, but the 
farmer did not regard it in that light and made 
us pay a round price for them. We were not 
much hurt, only a trifle bruised and shaken up, 
and we agreed among ourselves that nothing 
should be said on the subject. The next morn- 
ing however, there appeared an account of the 
accident in the newspaper, giving our names and 
adding that we were all badly hurt. My mother’s 
face was a study, as papa read aloud this highly 
interesting article. 

•‘Are you hurt, Bessie?” she asked. “No? 
Well,” she went on, after a slight pause, speaking 
very slowly, “ I had a letter from Laurence last 
week and a great part of this letter was about 


' THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL, 


231 


you. I did not tell you about it because your 
father and I had to talk it over a little. Now, 
your brother is doing very well, and he thinks 
that, by next year, he will be able to take you 
with him and put you in a boarding-school where 
he can see you two or three times a week. He 
thinks that it would have a good effect on you 
and I am inclined to agree with him that it would.” 

“ Oh, mamma ! ” I exclaimed jumping up from 
the table in my delight, “ how perfectly lovely! 
Oh, can I go } ” 

My mother looked deeply hurt. “ Would you 
be so glad as that to leave us, Bess ? ” 

I threw my arms about her neck. “No, you 
dear, darling mother, but it would be such fun to 
go to a boarding-school, and I could come home 
Christmas and Easter and all the long summer. 
O, O, Oh I " I started to waltz around the room. 

Papa squinted up his eyes a little and looked 
after me. “ If she regards it entirely from that 
standpoint, she might as well stay here,’’ he said. 

I stopped dancing, “ But I don’t, papa,” I 
said coaxingly. “ I know it’ll bejust the greatest 
chance for me to study hard and I never got on 
very well at the public schools, you know. Say, 
can I ? ” 

“ There’s plenty of time to talk about that,” 
rejoined my father. “ In the mean time — no more 
coasting, and try not to drive your mother crazy 
with your pranks.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


O Henry, we’ll have to send that child to 
boarding-school ! She’s got a whole box full ol 
the absurdest notes from that Jessup boy.” Thus 
my mother in despairing tones. 

Papa chuckled a little. “ Well, Louise, don’t 
take it so to heart. Didn’t you use to have little 
sweethearts when you were Bessie’s age ? ” 

“ I wish my daughters to do very much better 
than their mother,” was mamma’s evasive reply. 

“ I don’t think they could be better women 
than their mother, Lou.” 

Hereupon, I walked into the parlor. “ I 
couldn’t help hearing you, mamma,” I said, “and 
I want to explain to you that Harry Jessup isn’t 
just an ordinary boy. I s’pose those notes seem 
silly to you — that kind of talk always does seem 
silly to an outside party.” 

Here my father began to laugh, but mamma 
checked him with a reproachful look. “ Why, 
Bessie,” she said in a grieved tone, “ do you call 
your own mother an outside party ? ” 

“Well — yes, mamma, as far as Harry is con- 
cerned, you are. I think I ought to tell you that 
he is a very remarkable boy. It is his character 


THE MEMOIRS OP A LITTLE GIRL. 233 

that I admire most in Harry. It isn’t like it was 
with Teddy Langdon.” 

“ Oh, it’s not the same as with Teddy,” echoed 
my mother. 

“ No, and Harry is just a splendid fellow — all 
the other boys think so. He wouldn’t cheat and 
tell stories for anything, like some of them, and 
he tiever tells on anybody. And he’s ever and 
everso much older than I am — ’most three years.” 
I blushed a little here, but nerved myself to go on 
firmly. “ I don’t think you ought to feel so about 
seeing me fond of a boy that you wouldn’t mind 
having me get engaged to, when I’m old enough.” 

“ Bessie Benton ! I am glad you have the 
grace to blush, at least,” said my mother severely. 
I think papa wanted very much to laugh, his eyes 
twinkled just as they did when he was amused, 
but he only said, quite seriously — 

“ Now, Bessie, that will do. You are too young 
for such ideas as that. Enjoy your friend’s society, 
but don’t have any more of that mawkish senti- 
ment.” 

I went out, quite crestfallen, feeling very small 
and young and very much out of favor with my 
mother. I even debated with myself whether I 
should not give Harry up rather than make her 
feel so badly, but no, I told myself that such a 
course would be very weak. My favorite heroines 
never gave up ; they were polite but firm with their 
parents and resolute always against adverse fate. 


234 memoirs op a little girl . 

At recess that clay I told my friend all about 
the conversation, leaving out only what I had 
said about being engaged. 

“By jiminy ! did she read ’em all, Bess 1 
Whew ! ” he gave a long whistle and looked very 
rueful. 

I nodded my head vigorously. “ I guess so — 
anyway she said that they were the * absurdest 
notes’ — those were her very words. But you 
know /don’t think so, Harry,” I hastened to add, 
fearing that my candor had hurt his feelings. 

“Well, I just can’t look your mother in the 
face after that. Oh, Bess, why didn’t you tear 
’em up ? I did all yours.” 

While feeling grateful that Mrs. Jessup would 
have no such literary feast as my mother had 
enjoyed, I was at the same time somewhat hurt 
by Harry’s lack of sentiment. He should have 
treasured those notes, I thought. 

The bell rang and we said good-bye hastily and 
went off in opposite directions, for Harry was two 
divisions ahead of me and was to go into the High 
School in a few days. After school I found him 
awaiting me, as usual, and we walked on rather 
soberly together. “ Let’s go the longest way 
’round, Bess,” he suggested. “ I can’t go up to 
your house for a while now — till your mother 
gets over those notes.” 

I consented readily enough, and we went a very 
long way around, indeed. It was a warm day 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 235 

in early April, and, after a two days’ rain, the 
sky was clearing in the west. A beautiful golden 
light shone through the steam-like haze arising 
from the moist earth. The roads were deep in 
mud and the walking was dreadful. Harry gal- 
lantly helped me over the worst places, greatly 
to the detriment of his shoes. 

“ I shouldn’t wonder if they sent me away to 
school, Harry,” I said, at length, “ but not before 
next fall.” 

“Bessie, give me your hand.” 

I pulled off my woollen glove, and looking hastily 
about to see that no one was in sight, I did as I 
was asked. We were on the very outskirts of the 
town, standing in the mud under the leafless 
trees, and the rough wind tossed and tumbled 
the hair about my face. I looked up into my 
friend’s honest eyes as his strong fingers closed 
over mine with a tight grip. 

“ Bessie, let’s promise never to forget each 
other, no matter what any one says or does.” 

It was a solemn moment, and I felt a thrill, 
half of dread, half of excitement, at such a bold 
step. But I promised, and then turned without 
another look and ran towards home as fast as 
I could go, feeling bashful, elated, sorrowful, all 
at once. 

In my headlong course, I almost ran into 
Arthur Billings and his wife. They were walk- 
ing home together, she clinging to his arm in a 


236 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

half pretence of helping herself around the pud- 
dles, and they were both laughing. The spring 
breeze ruffled her blonde head into little curls 
about her face, her cheeks were very rosy, and she 
looked so much happier, so much prettier than 
a year ago. 

“ They’re very young, too,” I thought to my- 
self, “ but they knew their own minds — they knew 
they were just made for each other.” 

Nevertheless, when I drew near home and 
noted my mother’s look of relief to see me alone 
(she was watching for me at the window) my 
heart misgave me a little, and I felt a twinge of 
self-reproach. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


It was May, and my twelfth birthday was past. 
None of my last year’s frocks would fit me. 
There was no doubt in my mind that I was grow- 
ing up very fast. 1 had not been writing much 
poetry during the winter, but I burst into song 
with the birds in the spring. I wrote two beau- 
tiful poems (so I deemed them) to “ H. C. J.” ; 
but, after they were finished, I didn’t know what 
to do with them. They couldn’t be sent to Laurie 
to print, for he would certainly not approve — he 
might even call them nonsense. Of course I 
couldn’t think of letting papa or mamma see 
them, and I was too bashful to read them to 
Harry ; so I showed them to Cissy Hankinson. 
She thought them “just perfect,” and insisted on 
copying them. To this day she keeps that copy, 
written in a very round hand on pink note-paper 
with a white dove at the top. 

The fact that Cissie, just at that period, was 
very much interested in Willis Jessup, cemented 
the bond of our friendship more closely than 
ever. We scarcely ever quarreled now, only 
once in a great while, as on the day when Cissie 
said that Willis was better-looking than Harry. 


238 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

Of that there could be no doubt, but I felt it my 
duty to be angry with anyone for saying so. Or, 
another time, when I said that Willis was too 
young for Cissie (also quite true), but she was 
not pleased. It is singular how little attraction 
the plain, unvarnished truth has for most people. 

Just at this time Laurie made us a flying visit. 
I was very much afraid that some one would 
make some allusion to Harry in my brother’s 
presence. I knew just how quizzically his keen, 
blue eyes would look at me, and I dreaded being 
“ made fun of” by him. There never was a per- 
son in the world, not even my mother, whose 
good opinion I so longed for as Laurie’s. I could 
be bold in the presence of my parents, but when 
it came to talking about my friend to Laurie, I 
knew that would be impossible. 

Whether any one told him or not, he did not 
mention the subject to me. His talk with me 
was all of books and studies, and of his plan to 
put me in school near him the coming autumn. 
I was wild with joy at the prospect. I could 
have sat all day at his feet and listened. Then 
he told us of himself, of the difficulties he had 
encountered in starting his paper, and how, just 
at the moment when failure was staring him in the 
face, help came from an unexpected quarter. A 
rich old gentleman that he had met came to him 
and offered him a loan, enough to tide him over 
the worst. The old gentleman said, in explana- 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


239 


tion of his interest : “ I used to know your 
mother, sir ; and a sweet girl she was. You’re 
like her, sir. There’s a trick of expression that 
makes me think of her, but you haven’t got her 
eyes— and her curls, my boy, her curls— well. 
I’ve never seen such curls.” Laurie imitated the 
old man’s tone (he was a great mimic), and we 
all looked at my mother, who blushed very pret- 
tily. Papa pulled a little wayward curl on her 
temple. It was quite gray, but he said, “ There 
never was anything prettier than that ! ” 

Then Laurie told us how he had at last repaid 
the loan, and that he had money in the bank and 
every prospect of prosperity before him. “ And 
now I’m going to educate this little girl to make 
a woman whom we shall all be proud of. I shall 
never marry, and whatever I have my sisters 
shall share.” I hung my head, overwhelmed 
with the brilliance of this prospect and with my 
brother’s generosity. But mamma and papa 
smiled. 

“ Young men of twenty-two are very apt to think 
that they’ll die single. Like Benedict, they have 
to say afterwards, ‘ When I said I should die a 
bachelor, I did not think I should live to marry,’ ” 
papa said. “But I hope you won’t marry yet 
awhile, my boy.” 

After a two days’ visit, Laurie was gone. I 
could think and talk of nothing else but his plans 
for me, although my mother warned me not to 


240 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


set my heart on it, as they had not fully decided 
if it would be best. Harry felt a little hurt that 
I was so happy to go away. When he hinted as 
much, I was surprised. “ Why, Harry,” I said, 
“didn’t I promise? I can think about you just 
the same, whether I am in Northport or Chicago, 
and you’ll be going to college yourself pretty 
soon.” 

“Three years!” laughed Harry. “Do you 
call that soon ? ” 

“Well, anyway, there’ll be the vacations. I 
don’t s’pose they’ll let us write to each other. 
I'm sure Laurie wouldn’t like it.” 

“ No,” said my friend, moodily ; “grown peo- 
ple don’t seem to think boys and girls have any 
feelings. What’d your brother do if he couldn’t 
write to a girl for years and years ? ” 

“ He wouldn’t mind,” I said, positively. “ He 
doesn’t care for anything of that sort. I guess he 
just thinks it’s all silly.” 

When the schools closed, the summer was at 
the height of its beauty and perfection. I had 
grown so much more serious that my mother had 
ceased to dread my risking my life by falling into 
the canal, or to fear that I should start on voy- 
ages of discovery, but she still thought she had 
cause for anxiety. Harry and I were almost in- 
separable. I used to wonder that she did not 
forbid our going so much together, but after- 
wards I learned that papa had objected to her 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. C41 

doing so. “ Let this calf love run its course,” he 
said. “ They’ll only be sentimental and sulky if 
you check them ; and if you don’t, time will cure 
them.” However, this new development had the 
effect of determining my parents to let me go to 
Laurie in the autumn. 

Kitty — a big girl now, with her curls braided 
tight and a pair of new and very large front 
teeth — used to have great fun at my expense. 
She pretended to look under my pillow for love- 
letters and photographs, and she used to some- 
times make believe that she missed a lock of hair 
from my luxuriant fringe. "Where does the 
child get such ideas ? ” asked mamma, aghast. 
"That Jessup boy is revolutionizing my entire 
family.” 

Kitty tossed her braids and looked very know- 
ing. "Jack told me something,” she remarked, 
mysteriously, 

I grew crimson, and my ears began to tingle. 
There wasn’t anything for Jack Jessup to tell, but 
he was quite equal to the composition of a good 
story, I felt sure. 

"What did Jack tell you, dear?” asked 
mamma in her sweetest tones. 

" He says — ” Here Kitty broke off and began 
to giggle ecstatically. " He says — that Harry 
can’t talk enough about Bess when he’s awake, 
and he — 0 -o-oh ! Stop kicking me, Bess.” 

" I’m not touching her, mamma,” I exclaimed, 

16 


242 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


indignantly. “ I just went to cross my knees 
and my foot slipped.” 

“ What does Jack say, Kitty ? Stop giggling, 
you silly child,” pursued mamma, relentlessly. 

“He says ‘Bessie, Bessie,’ all the time in his 
sleep, and Willis threw his pillow at him the 
other night, so’s he wouldn’t talk any more and 
keep ’em awake, and the pillow hit the water 
pitcher an’ it fell down an’ broke, an’ Mr. Jessup 
came running upstairs an’ said ‘Boys, boys!’” 
Kitty rolled her eyes and struck a dramatic atti- 
tude. “ ‘ What’s all this fuss about ? ’ An’ Willis 
says ‘Bessie Benton,’ an’ his father didn’t know 
what he meant, an’ Harry pitched into Willis 
an’ punched him like everything.” Kitty paused 
for breath, while papa laughed until the tears 
stood in his eyes. 

“What do you suppose Mr. Jessup thought 
when he found out what they meant, Bessie ? ” 
asked my mother ; but I was beating a hasty re- 
treat upstairs and pretended not to hear. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


“ O Bess, mamma says I can have a lawn 
party ! ” Cissie came bursting in upon me as I 
dusted our parlor. I dropped the duster and 
caught hold of my friend. We executed a few 
waltz steps to relieve our feelings, and then sat 
down. 

“ How perfectly elegant, Cis’. In the evening ? 
O, I hope it’s going to be in the evening ! ” 

“ Well, I just guess so. I’m in my ’teens now. 
I don’t have to have a children's party. We’re 
going to have Chinese lanterns, Bess, and a cal- 
cium light on the lawn, and Bryan’s band to play 
— perhaps.” 

“ O, goody ! I hope I can have a new dress 
for it. Perhaps Laurie will send me one. I’m 
going to write this very day and ask him.” 

“If I could only make my hair curP; but it 
never will stay in summer ! Don’t you know 
something to fix it, Bess ? ” 

“ I don’t, Cis’. Might try mucilage.” 

“ Why, yes, maybe that would do. I do want 
to look as well as I can, Bess.” Cissie’s intona- 
tion was almost pathetic. She was not very 
good to look at, and, strange to say, she seemed 
to realize it, 


2 44 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL, 


Laurence responded to my appeal, and I had 
the freshest of white muslin frocks, dainty as lace 
and bows of white ribbon could make it. For days 
before the party I spent most of my time at the 
Hankinsons’, helping Cissie with the decorations 
and with stoning raisins and cracking nuts for the 
construction of toothsome cakes. When there was 
nothing else to do, we shut ourselves up in her bed- 
room, away from the tribe of little brothers and 
sisters, and discussed the prospect. It was a 
small, low-ceiled room and the two windows were 
deeply shaded in summer by the branches of a 
giant apple-tree. We could, by hanging danger- 
ously across the sill, almost reach the green fruit 
with which the tree was loaded. It was but a 
plain little apartment, there were no lace frills or 
satin ribbons, no scent of dainty sachets nor glitter 
of such cut-glass and silver toys and trifles as 
beautify the rooms of the young girls of to-day. 
The old-fashioned bedstead was covered with a 
patchwork silk quilt of the pattern known as log- 
cabin. It had once had a frame-work at the head 
for hanging curtains, but drapery about a bed 
was considered in those times “ too outlandish 
for anything ” and the framework had been taken 
away. The dressing-table, a fragile piece of Chip- 
pendale, but little appreciated in that epoch of 
hideously cumbrous furniture, was surrounded 
by mementoes and trophies of all sorts — dried 
grasses, bird’s nests, paper flowers, candy mot- 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


245 


toes, faded valentines, cheap little flags, tintype 
pictures of Cissie and her friends at all ages, and 
in all costumes. There was the brother at a 
military school, very stiff and dignified in his mil- 
itary jacket, with a perfect eruption of brass but- 
tons, carefully and faithfully gilded in the picture 
by the tintype artist. Then there was the old 
great aunt from the country, with a onesided 
smile playing amid a network of wrinkles and a 
cap outrageously and rakishly cocked over one 
ear, wearing her best black silk, very wrinkled 
about the waist and short enough in front to dis- 
play two substantial prunella-gaitered feet. Then 
there was Cissie — a preternaturally fat and solemn 
baby, Cissie at the age of two, still abnormally 
fat and quite inclined to cry, Cissie at five, one 
stocking very much wrinkled on her chubby leg, 
with a row of stringy curls all about her round 
head and pantalettes much in evidence. Cissie 
at the age of eight — hair tightly drawn back 
from bulbous brow, a countenance of awful 
solemnity, toes turned in, reading a book, with 
left hand spread out to show a new birthday ring. 
Cissie at ten, lovingly entwined with Emma Fan- 
tucci and Cora Billings, all laughing, but trying 
to look serious, a struggle very detrimental to 
their features. I was there, too, a plump and 
determined-looking fairy, pointing my wand at 
the spectator, apparently ferociously bent on 
impaling some one on its point. Cissie, also in 


246 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

fairy garb, was next me, feet very conspicuous in 
white shoes, wand held in military style. These 
and many others formed a gallery of art such as 
most of us who were young in the ’Seventies can 
well recall. At each window stood a low rocker 
with a cushion stuffed with feathers on the seat, 
and the floor was covered with an ingrain carpet 
so faded and worn that its original pattern was 
scarcely visible. Downstairs the furnishing was 
more modern. The old pieces, some of them 
works of art, had grad ually drifted into the nursery 
or the bedrooms of the other children. There 
was a large fireplace which had been walled up 
and a register introduced in its place. On one 
side of the mantel was a cupboard, where my 
friend kept such treasures as she wanted to lock 
up out of the way of her enterprising little brothers 
and sisters. I do not now recall what all of these 
treasures were, though I remember that there 
was food for both mind and body inside. Cissie 
always kept there some nuts and fruit or home- 
made candy on which we feasted, a pack of cards 
with which we sometimes played “ Casino ” or 
“Old Maid,” some paper-bound novels at which 
I peeped covetously when she opened the door, 
for I was under bonds to read no more novels 
without my mother’s special permission. No 
such restrictions were laid on Cissie, and she 
flourished before my envious eyes such tempting 
volumes as “ Lena Rivers,” which she declared 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


247 


was “ perfectly elegant,” or “ Cometh Up as a 
Flower,” which was “too lovely for anything. 
I just wept buckets of tears over it ! ” and she 
showed me a tear-splashed page which I could 
not keep my truant eyes from reading. 

“ The Knight’s bones are dust. 

His good sword is rust. 

His soul is with the saints, we trust — ” 

I murmured. It sounded very strange and 
attractive. 

“ Oh, Cis ! Please tell me the story. I know 
I should just love it,” I pleaded. 

“You can take it,” said my friend good- 
naturedly. “Oh, I forgot — what a nuisance that 
you can’t read novels.” 

“Mamma might just as well let me,” I said. 
“ I think them all the time — great long ones 
with the most exciting plots and lots of scrapes 
for the heroine to get into. But do tell me about 
it, Cis.” 

“ Let me see,” pondered Cissie. “ I don’t know 
if I can. I’ve read so many since. But Dick is 
the hero’s name. I’ve always wanted to know a 
Dick ever since, for I just adored him.” 

“Was he as nice as Willis?” I suggested 
archly. Such little jokes as these were consid- 
ered necessary from time to time. It was only 
polite to “ tease ” one’s friends occasionally with 
reference to their preferences. It was thought 
“ mean ” not to do so. 


248 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 


“ Oh — different. He was an Englishman, you 
know. I just believe I’d love to live in England. 
They have such good times there. They’re 
always drinking tea — -I don’t like tea very well— 
but somehow tea and muffins by the open fire, or 
tea and cakes out on the lawn sounds so nice. 
All the nicest novels are about England — not 
“ Lena Rivers,” though ; that’s Southern, like 
“Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” only different.” 

I brightened up a little. “ Mamma let me 
read that. She said it had done the greatest 
work of any book she knew of— about slavery, 
you know.” 

“ Yes, but it isn’t as nice as this.” Cissie 
patted affectionately a tattered copy of “ Rose 
Mather.” “ That’s all about the war, and it’s just 
heavenly. Perhaps your mother would let you 
read it if she let you read ‘ Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’ ” 

“I’ll ask her. I’m pretty sure she will if it’s 
about the same things. Well, I s’pose I must 
go,” after a little pause, during which I fingered 
over the book. “ Mamma says I just here, 
now.” I jumped up and executed a few dance 
steps. “Oh, Cis — to-morrow night, to-morrow 
night ! ” 

“To-morrow night !” echoed my companion 
joyously, capering about like me and clapping 
her hands. “Bess, it just seems as if I couldn’t 
live till then. Good-bye, you dear old thing — 
won’t I see you to-night ? ” 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 249 

"You’d better walk down our way,” I sug- 
gested. " I’ll be out on the front steps. 
Mamma’s afraid your mother won’t like it — • 
having me come here all the time.” 

" Nonsense ! but I’ll come over any way, and 
then your mother won’t mind your being here 
to-morrow to help. Oh, i just pray it’ll be a 
pleasant day ! ” 

I walked homeward, variegating my progress 
with an occasional little skip to express the joy- 
ous excitement with which I was overflowing. I 
should have liked to run and skip all the way, 
but I thought I was too old to do so. It was 
nice to be old and have longer frocks, but it also 
had its responsibilities and inconveniences, and 
it quite often kept me from doing things that I 
should have enjoyed. Sometimes, when Kitty 
had all her dolls out, I felt impelled to sit down 
on the floor and help her dress them or put them 
to bed, but, during the past winter, I had stopped 
playing with dolls because I thought myself too 
old. I had " burned my bridges behind me ” by 
giving them all to Kitty. It caused me many a 
pang to note the careless way in which she 
treated big Eugenie, my wax favorite. Eugenie’s 
cheeks were losing their color — her hair was a 
tangled mop. I could not but think how many 
years she would have lasted under my tender care. 

The next evening, I was the first guest to 
arrive at Cissie’s party. I had been especially 


250 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 

asked to come early and assist my friend in doing 
the honors. Cissie was all in blue — a knot of 
blue ribbon tied in her hair, and around her 
forehead was a row of neat little curls which 
looked exactly like watch-springs, so metallic, so 
fixed were they. I wanted to re-arrange them, 
but it seemed to me dangerous. I feared they 
would break off in my hand. “ I don’t believe 
my hair ’ll come out to-night ” she whispered to 
me in triumph. “I put on lots and lots of 
mucilage.” She had on a pair of new and very 
tight blue shoes, which kept her constantly 
uneasy and hopping from one foot to another to 
give herself some relief, and in one hand she 
held a big bouquet of garden flowers, in the other 
a fan and handkerchief. These she constantly 
shifted and transferred from one hand to an- 
other in order the greet her guests. 

From the ages of six to fifteen, eveiy one we 
knew in town was there, and the gay summer 
dresses showed flower-like amid the green. 
The lawn was rather unkempt, and the trees grew 
as they pleased, without the aid or care of a 
gardener, but, at night with the light of hundreds 
of Chinese lanterns, it looked very beautiful, and 
we were very happy. 

I was most sinfully proud of my Chicago frock. 
It had an “ air,” I thought, quite different from 
anything worn by my friends, and I pranced about 
like a small peacock, admiring myself immensely. 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 251 

Harry was attentive, but very serious — the effect 
of new clothes and an extremely high and stiff 
collar. I was inclined to coquet a little with him, 
and this made him more and more serious. He 
looked at me anxiously and failed to rise to my 
airy sallies. In the pause of a lanciers he finally 
asked me if I were angry with him. 

“ Who told you that ? ” I asked, astonished 
into dropping my Dolly Varden manner. 

“ Nobody, Only you act so — so sarcastic and 
queer. I thought maybe you were mad.” 

Evidently I was not a success in the Dolly Var- 
den role, or Harry was very dull. I tried to 
think that Harry was dull and treated him 
accordingly until his appealing eyes — they were 
like the eyes of some honest, well-intentioned 
setter — made me feel ashamed and sorry. Then 
I relented and frankly gave him all the dances he 
asked for, without stopping to pretend I couldn’t 
remember whether I was engaged or not. 

Gradually the lanterns burned out, or burned 
up, and only here and there a solitary light 
showed dangling from the big trees. The moon 
came out and looked down upon us with a 
friendly face, dimmed at intervals by a filmy 
fleece of cloud. We had done ample justice to the 
supper — the younger members of the company 
had long since gone home — and our feet were 
weary with much dancing, our eyes heavy with 
sleep. 


252 THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL, 

On a bench under an old apple-tree we sat 
silent, Harry and I. I think that both of us felt a 
little sad ; I know that I did. Why, I could not 
have told, except that I was tired and the party 
was over. But, somehow, I felt that something- 
else was ended for me — that a new world was 
opening before me — an unknown region. I 
wanted to shake off the s'trange discomfort. 

“ I guess we’re all talked out, Bess,” remarked 
my companion ; “ but I like to sit here with you 
like this, even if we haven’t got anything to say 
to each other.” 

“ I’m so tired, Harry, and kind of — blue, I 
s’pose. Don’t you ever feel like that ? ” 

“Never — unless something happens. I did 
at first to-night, when I thought you were 
mad.” 

•' I haven’t got anything more to think of,” I 
said, mournfully. “ Now this is over, and 
mamma said I couldn’t read ‘ Rose Mather,’ and 
there aren’t going to be any more parties or pic- 
nics that I know of. If I only had an interesting 
book ! ” 

“ I’ll lend you a splendid one — all about In- 
dians — ‘ The Pathfinder,’ ” said Harry, eager to 
find some consolation for me. 

“ That’s Cooper, isn’t it ? I don’t like Cooper. 
I like books that tell about balls, and describe 
the heroine’s dresses.” 

Harry laughed. “ Well, you couldn’t expect 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 253 

me to like that kind,” he said. “Cooper’s just 
immense.” 

“ O, good gracious, Harry ! ” I interrupted, 
springing to my feet, “ I do believe everyone is 
gone but us. The music has stopped, and it’s 
just as still.” 

It was but a short walk along the same street 
to our house, and papa had left me to go home 
under Harry’s care. We both felt proud of this 
mark of confidence as we walked along under 
the alternating shadow and white moonlight, the 
sound of our footsteps echoing back from the 
dark and silent houses. It was so still that we 
whispered as we went. It seemed as though, if 
we spoke aloud, we should awaken the sleepers 
within. But in our front windows a light was 
burning, and on the shade was outlined my 
mother’s profile. She was patiently waiting to 
see me safe at home and to listen to the stories I 
should have to tell of the pleasures and triumphs 
of the evening. The jingling bell pealed harshly 
through the quiet house — the shadow arose. 

“ Good-night, Harry,” I cried. 

“Good-night, Bessie — dear. Pleasant dreams.” 
****** 

My mother caught me in her arms and gave 
me a sudden little hug. I looked up, surprised, 
into her face. Such demonstrations were not 
uncommon with her, but this time there seemed 
something unusual about the caress. 


254 the memoirs of a little girl . 

“Why, mamma,” I said, wonderingly, “you 
squeezed me then just as you did when we got 
lost on the lake.” 

She drew me into the parlor. “ I’ve been 
looking over some old letters to-night,” she said. 
Her voice thrilled with something like joy. But 
when she read the old letters mamma used often 
to cry. I couldn’t understand her mood that 
night. “ Look here, Bessie ! ” She waved ex- 
citedly before my sleepy eyes a paper with a 
great red seal upon it. 

“ Don’t you see ? O, my darling, it’s the deed 
— the deed ! The Chicago block is ours now by 
law ; it’s always been ours by right. We shan’t 
be poor any more. I’ve been sitting here as if 
in a dream. I couldn’t believe it at first, but 
now I know I’m awake. Don’t you know what 
it means to us, child ? It means ease ; it means 
a heart free from the dread of to-morrow — it 
means an end to your father’s patient drudging. 
I’m so happy that I’m out of my mind ! ” 

The tears rolled down her cheeks. For the 
first time I began to realize what the past three 
years had meant — what cheerful sacrifices, what 
skillful management, what cares silently and un- 
complainingly borne. I began to cry, too ; not 
for joy as she did, but in sympathy with her 
mood. Those years had been too happy for me 
to regret them. 

“ Let us call your father ; it was in one of his 


THE MEMOIRS OF A LITTLE GIRL. 255 

letters to me. I don’t see how I could have 
missed it, when I’ve looked so many times. No, 
let us go upstairs and waken him. It will be 
the happiest wakening he’s had for many a day. 
Go to the foot of the stairs, while I put out the 
light here below.” 

I turned my head and silently watched her as 
she extinguished the lamp. The moon threw a 
flood of light across the hall at the top of the 
stairs, and hand in hand we stole softly through 
the darkness into the radiance above. 


THE END. 




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